


Kuroo Tetsurou Skis Without Goggles

by birdcat



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Ski Resort, Angst, Angst and Fluff, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, De-Aged Character(s), Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Multi, Not Beta Read, Slow Burn, and obviously a lot of them are fake & for the sake of plot but hirafu village is a thing, i did a lot of research before writing this into the mountain at which it takes place, i'm actually an avid skier myself & came up with this while skiing lmfao, it's niseko it's the biggest ski resort in japan. a lot of the details i mention r actually true!, never meant for it to get this big, ski au, this updates once/twice a week fyi! assignments are unpredictable though so it changes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-05-28 15:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 74,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6335104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdcat/pseuds/birdcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oikawa Tooru cannot ski.</p><p>He was injured, two years ago, by his current boyfriend, Kuroo Tetsurou. Kuroo ran into him during a race, fracturing his right kneecap and tearing three out of four vital ligaments from his bones, turning his world on its end and permanently barring him from the slopes.</p><p>In atonement for this, Oikawa made Kuroo promise never to ski competitively again. For two years, Kuroo has kept that promise, maintaining a seasonal career as a ski instructor and keeping his racing skis locked away in his closet.</p><p>Enter Bokuto Kotarou. Gifted snowboarder, infamous troublemaker, and local celebrity at Niseko mountain. After shoving a kid into a ditch and very nearly getting into a fight with Kuroo, his presence threatens to tear apart the promise the skier has so carefully upheld.</p><p>Or: eighty thousand words of Kuroo, Oikawa, and Bokuto making regrettable skiing-related decisions until their own stupidity brings them together in thrilling and emotional fashion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am a devoted skier, and I came up with the idea for this fic while skiing. I went under one of those fake-snow blowing machines, and my goggles got caked up with snow and ice enough to blind me completely. Normally, you'd be like "Shit," and stop and clean off your goggles, but as a writer, of course my immediate thought was: "Can I use this as a plot device?" Thankfully, despite my blindness, I didn't run into anything--but Kuroo did.
> 
> That's all I've got to say. 
> 
> Enjoy the first chapter!

“Your quads are fucking insane, you know that?” Oikawa wasn’t shy in grabbing his leg as he sat down on the counter. “You’re lying if you tell me you don’t work on them during the off-season.” He squeezed Kuroo’s thigh deliberately. “I can, like,  _ feel  _ the definition through your jeans, just look at—”

“Right, right. Just fit me up.” Kuroo tipped his head towards Oikawa with a grin. “You’ve got plenty of opportunities to feel up my legs, now is not one of them.”

Oikawa faked a gasp and clutched at Kuroo’s calves. “Oh, but Tetsu-chan,” he crooned, “you are simply too ravishing, I don’t know how you could possibly expect me to resist—”

Kuroo jerked his leg, almost knocking Oikawa in the face. He shot a glance around the shop. “Not now, Tooru. Don’t traumatize the customers.”

They made eye contact, shared a laugh, and Oikawa ducked down to yank off Kuroo’s shoes.

Kuroo’s comment was hardly based in truth: Niskeo’s Hirafu Village ski rental shop was vacant. A few employees milled about behind the registers, a stray customer was looking at their selection of socks, and someone had brought in their laptop to leech off the wifi— namely, Issei Matsukawa— but it was late enough and cold enough that Oikawa felt confident in letting Kuroo appropriate counter space for his ass as he fitted him with his boots for the season.

Oikawa was humming something as Kuroo stared at his phone. “Do you know if you’ll be dealing with the same kids as last year?” Oikawa asked. He was fiddling at Kuroo’s feet with a set of bindings.

Kuroo leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. “I’m not sure, actually. We’re getting the lists tomorrow morning. Keishin said that he’ll try to give us the same groups as last year, but I can’t imagine that everyone’s going to come back. I think some of them considered me a tyrant by the end.”

Oikawa grabbed a box of boots he’d left off to the side, and shrugged. “I don’t know, they all seemed to really like you.”

Kuroo’s grin was almost lewd. “They only acted that way around you ‘cause they figured out you were my boyfriend.”

Oikawa’s eyes shot up at him dangerously. “And I bet that’s because you told them.”

“I did.” Kuroo reached down to cup his cheek, and Oikawa swatted him away. “What?” He crooned in mockery of the other man. “Why, with a boy like you, how could I not brag to my students about how sweet and kind you are, and how pleasant, and how you love to get down on your knees for me, like right now, look at you, down on your knees—”

“I am going to make your shaft cuffs two sizes too small, and you are going to come back to me tomorrow with bleeding shins, and I am going to refuse to adjust them.”

Kuroo leaned back again with a grin. “Glad to know we’re still on equal footing.”

Oikawa yanked his foot. “Watch me do it.”

Kuroo wiggled his foot close to Oikawa’s face. “I dare you, Tooru, I dare you to make my shaft cuffs too small on my boots, and I dare you to betray me, your own boyfriend—”

“Shut up, and let me put boots on your feet.” Oikawa had ducked away to grab the boots he’d set aside. Kuroo let him, and moved his foot away. 

Oikawa sucked in a breath, and held up a boot for Kuroo to see. “These are the nicest ones I found in your size, so I may or may not have stolen them away when we were unpacking for the season, and hidden them in the back room until now. So I hope that you like them.” Oikawa said this very sincerely, and pried open the plastic to shove Kuroo’s foot inside.

“I expect that I’ll be receiving an… employee discount?” Kuroo knew Oikawa would understand.

Oikawa shrugged, jutting out his bottom lip as he shut one of the bottom cuffs. “Maybe ninety, maybe one-hundred percent?”

They shared a dangerous grin.

“Well, they’re grossly expensive, so I wouldn’t have suggested them if I expected us to pay for them, anyways.” Oikawa sat back and let Kuroo stand up. “Do you like them?”

“Let me flex them for a second, Oiks.” Kuroo teasingly put a hand on Oikawa’s head as he leaned forward. Oikawa let him. Kuroo shifted his weight forward onto the front of the boots, then back, then forward again.

“They’re good.” Kuroo looked at him in surprise. He jiggled his left leg. “They’re really light, too. And flexible, not really dense at the top. They lean me forward real steep, too, it’s a little bit weird. They feel like…” Kuroo had a stern expression.

“What.” Oikawa said flatly.

“They feel like racing boots.” Kuroo was staring at him.

A pause. Oikawa blinked back. “Yeah?”

“What,” Kuroo tone of voice changed. “Like that hasn’t got some sort of connotation between us?”

Oikawa lifted Kuroo’s hand off his head, and stood up. “What, you’re suggesting I want you to start competing again?”

Kuroo’s eyes wavered for a moment. “No, but I think it’s weird that you’ve picked these out.”

OIkawa cleared his throat and folded his hands together. “First of all, if I wanted you to start competing again, then I would be direct about it; and two, if anyone has a right to be pissy about our competitive careers coming to a close, it’s me. We’ve been over this.”

Kuroo was taken aback. “Alright, well, it’s still weird that you’ve got these for me.” He gestured at his feet. “Don’t you think? It’s a little uncomfortable? Because I think it’s a little uncharacteristic of—”

“Who can still ski.” Oikawa cut him off.

“What?”

“Between the two of us, Kuroo, who can still ski?”

Kuroo further retreated. “What?”

“Between the two of us standing here right now, which one can still go up onto a mountain with boots on his feet and come back down on strips of carbon fiber known as skis, in an activity typically known as  _ skiing— _ ”

“It’s me. It’s me, Oikawa.” Kuroo blurted. He was red in the face. 

The two of them were silent for a moment. “Exactly.” Oikawa mouthed the word, and sat back down. He breathed out, and folded his hands together again. “Now, do you want them or not?” He stared up at Kuroo.

Kuroo met his gaze. “I don’t know.” He said, uselessly.

Oikawa pursed his lips. Neither of them spoke, and Kuroo stood there without moving.

“I’m sorry—” Kuroo began.

“Shut up. Look,” Oikawa shook his head. “I get why you feel uncomfortable about this, it would be— it would be weird to get back into that now, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Right, so let’s not think about that. How do you feel about the boots?” Oikawa gestured at Kuroo’s unmoving feet.

Kuroo was pliant. “They’re good.”

Oikawa put a hand on his knee. “See? Good. Are we gonna get them?”

“Yeah, yeah sure.” Kuroo needed to convince himself. “Oikawa, I’m sorry—”

Oikawa had already gotten up. “Shut up, would you?” He grabbed Kuroo’s arm. “It’s fine. I take responsibility. Let’s get them back in the box, I can bring them back for tomorrow morning.”

Kuroo looked at him with a slowly-emerging smile. “I still can’t believe we’re stealing these.”

Oikawa was grateful for the shift in mood. “I can. Now get out of them.” He smacked the back of Kuroo’s arm and went to put away the other boxes. 

Kuroo stood there watching him for a moment, reeling slightly. Oikawa was bent over a pile of bindings. “I love you.”

“Mhm.” Oikawa said it long and drawn-out. He stood up and turned to him with a boot pressed to his chest. “I know.”

Kuroo hobbled over to pull him into a hug. It was uncomfortable, with Kuroo wearing ski boots and another pressed between them. “I love you.”

“There are people in here, Kuroo.”

“I don’t care.”

 

~~~

 

“I don’t care.”

“I do!” Hinata protested. “I don’t want to sit next to him again.” He gesticulated wildly at the taller boy next to him, his breath clouding the air. “He always shoves me.”

Kuroo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is this true, Kageyama?”

Kageyama, behind three layers of masks and oversized goggles, shrugged. He poked at the ground with his pole.

Kuroo frowned, and shook his head at Hinata just as he was about to protest again. “Get in line, guys.” He clapped Yamaguchi on the back, who squawked. Kuroo herded them into the Ski School line for the chair lift as best he could. Lev wasn’t wearing a helmet, and Kenma had snuck his PSP out into the line. “Kenma, put that thing away.”

“No.”

“Okay.” Kuroo sniffed, and rubbed at his face. He knew which battles were worth fighting.

Group 3 of the aged 11-13 Niseko Boys’ Ski School was under the watch of Kuroo Tetsurou for the second year in a row. He’d taken them on the year prior after retiring from Niskeo’s competitive skiing route, and quickly found his hands full. They met three days a week, from 10 to 2, and the entire time Kuroo could feel his poor highschool-dropout-brain melting from stress. 

“How many are there this year?” Tsukki asked. He was the oldest, functioned as Kuroo’s helper, and every day Kuroo found himself more and more thankful for his presence.

“Dunno.” They were currently two rows back for the main lift. Kuroo counted quickly to sum up the number. Oikawa had turned out right— all but one had returned. “Tsukki, what happened to Kindaichi?”

“I don’t know. How would I know?”

“He fell off a ski lift and died!” Lev piped.

“Not possible!” Hinata gave Kuroo no time to interject.

“Is possible!” Kageyama shot back. “I’ll show you.”

“No you won’t.” Kuroo pointed at Kageyama directly. “And it’s fine that he hasn’t come back, it just means one less kid I have to look after.”

“Wow, Kuroo, great to know you value our company.” Kenma said this while staring down at his game, ignoring everyone.

Kuroo shrugged. “I do sometimes. There’s six of us who can fit on that chair, and seven of us, so I’ll take the next one.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Tsukki asked. He pointed with a gloved hand at Kageyama and Hinata, the two of them now piling snow onto their skis and then slapping the ground with them to spray it at one another.

Kuroo pursed his lips, and glanced at Tsukki. “You’ll live.”

Tsukki looked both insulted and concerned.

As it turned out, they all did live, but not without Kuroo shouting at them from the lift behind every 20 seconds. Placing Hinata and Kageyama together at the end of the chair put the smaller boy in a dangerous position, Kuroo quickly learned. It was not without much screaming and thwacking of poles that Hinata had managed to survive.

“I told you.” Tsukki whispered this to him once they reached the top.

“Whatever. We’re going this way.” Kuroo yanked on his pole straps and took off towards where he knew the best warm-up route to be.

“Wait the hell up—”

“Where are we going?”

“Tsukki, help!”

“I lost a glove.”

“Kageyama won’t stop poking me!”

“Kenma dropped his game thingy in the snow!”

Kuroo stopped. By the end of last year’s season, he’d gotten used to this, but it was coming back to him now mercilessly. They couldn’t last five seconds without someone losing something. He whipped around, almost bumping into a tourist. “How old are we?”

The group of disheveled boys answered him meekly. “Twelve.” “Thirteen.” “Kageyama is still eleven!” “Shut the fuck up!”

Kuroo buried his face in his hands. “Let’s start acting like it, alright?”

“So cliche, Kuroo.” Tsukki mumbled.

“Whatever, shut up, we’re going. Put on your poles.”

The group headed down the route Kuroo picked out without complaint. It was the easiest path on the mountain, a green circle dotted with “SLOW” and “FAMILY ZONE” signs, many of which were half-buried in snow. Not a single skier payed attention to the signs, Kageyama and Hinata especially, who went so far as to slide-stop in front of them to pile more on. Kuroo, already, did not have enough in him to chastise them.

“Kuroo, Yamaguchi’s stuck again.”

Kuroo’s job description was to teach these boys how to ski, but it was agreed upon by most involved that by their age, any “teacher” assigned was just university student hired to keep teenagers away from their parents for a few hours so they could ski alone. Kuroo did his job surprisingly well— he was apathetic and “cool” enough, in Lev’s words, to let them do whatever they wanted with limited interference, while still having a clean no-injury record. Kuroo’s philosophy was that if no one broke or lost a limb, he was doing his job well. The truth was, most of the time Tsukki was just doing his job for him.

“Just pull him out. You’re strong enough.” Kuroo was going slowly and didn’t stop, keeping a watchful eye on Kenma, who was skiing while looking down at his PSP.

“Uh, no.” Tsuki pulled his mask down. “Kuroo, I think he’s hurt.”

Kuroo heard Yamaguchi shout something from the underbrush. “Nevermind. Uh, Kenma, stop skiing when you get to where Kageyama and Hinata are. Lev will catch you.” Kuroo took off back up the flat, pushing with his poles and squinting through the snow-flecked air. “Yamaguchi?”

“He’s down there.” Tsuki was red in the face. “I got his pole.”

Yamaguchi was two meters down into a gulley of trees, one ski stuck up in the air and the other wedged behind a bush, both still clipped to his feet. He was more or less upside down, with his butt above his head and his jacket halfway fallen down his back. “Hey,” he mumbled.

“Are you hurt? How did you get down there?” Kuroo was ready to take off his skis and go down after him, but Tsuki grabbed him by the shoulder and pointed to Kageyama and Hinata.

The two boys were stopped thirty meters away, both gesturing enthusiastically towards a small group of adult snowboarders. Kuroo was glad to see Kenma with them, alive. “What is it?”

“That’s the guy.” Tsuki pulled down his mask again, eyes wide. “He pushed Yamaguchi down there. We saw it.”

“Sure did!” Yamaguchi called up. He was now struggling to untangle himself from the bush.

Kuroo’s mouth dropped open. “He pushed you? You got pushed?”

“Yeah.” Yamaguchi’s response was muffled.

Kuroo gripped his poles hard. “How old is he? The fuck?” He looked over at the group and threw both arms in the air, indignant. “Are you okay? He pushed you? I’m gonna go after him— Tsuki, take off your skis and go collect Yamaguchi, I’m going to—”

“It’s the one in yellow and black, Kuroo, I don’t think that he did it on purpose.” Tsuki grabbed his shoulder in warning.

“He did! It was on purpose!” Yamaguchi protested. He’d only sunk himself further into the snow.

“Doesn’t matter whether he did on purpose or not! See this logo?” He pointed to the “SKI SCHOOL” label on the back of his jacket. “It means I’m like... God. I’m God. I’m gonna go talk to that guy, he can’t go around pushing kids into the woods.”

Tsuki frowned, and shrugged. “Alright. Don’t get beat up.”

“Help Yamaguchi.”

Kuroo was still viciously fast, frighteningly fast, even, on a pair of skis. He sped over the thirty-meter gap before Hinata had time to prepare himself for the flurry of snow.

“Which one?” He huffed to the boys. The group of snowboarders was still lingering by the trail junction, and he’d forgotten what Tsuki had said to him.

“That big one, uh, yellow jacket.” Hinata pointed with a pole, half-hidden behind Kageyama. He looked pale.

Kuroo took off without another word. There were four of them gathered around, all tall males, all being loud. They had their feet half-unclipped from their snowboards and managed to take up a ridiculous amount of space in front of the trail junction signs. Kuroo didn’t care about his job, but seeing people blatantly violate mountain rules set him on edge.

“Hey.” He shouted. He didn’t have goggles, but his mask was down, so he jerked his chin up to call their attention.

They all looked up at him simultaneously. It was, to Kuroo’s dismay, viciously intimidating.

He skidded to a stop in front of them and pulled his mask down quickly. His breath fogged the air. “One of you pushed one of my kids into a ditch.”

Two of them exchanged a look. “What?”

They appeared bigger up close. There were only two wearing jackets, the others were donned in hoodies and hockey jerseys, and not a single one wore a helmet. Kuroo was taller than all of them, but felt the need to stand up straighter. They all looked at him expectantly. _You work here,_ he reminded himself, and made eye contact with the one with yellow. “It was you, right?”

“Huh?” The man pushed a hand through his--ridiculously dyed--hair and made a face. His buddies all looked at him.

“You pushed a kid down into a ditch just now?” Kuroo knew he wasn’t supposed to confront customers this aggressively, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The guy’s face was perplexed, but then realization struck. “Oh. The kid.” He shrugged. “Hey, it happens.” He suddenly broke out into a grin. His friends laughed with him now, as if on cue. One of them slapped him on the back.

“What?” Kuroo was silent for a moment, stunned, and then he was up in arms. “You just knocked a kid over!” He gestured over to Yamaguchi’s ditch with his right arm. He knew adult snowboarders to be brazen, but not at this level. Kuroo was going red in the face.

The man was quiet for moment, looking him up and down with a grin, then leaned forward to shake his hand. “Bokuto Kotarou.” He said, patting Kuroo’s arm with his other hand. “How’s it going?” His eyes were wide and smiling in clear mockery.

Kuroo retracted his hand the moment Bokuto let go. “What are you—”

“It’s nothing, yeah?” Bokuto was grinning with his hands on his hips. “Just happens. You’re really funny, huh?” He threw his head back in a laugh. “You’re a ski instructor, right? You teach kids? That’s cool!” He grab-patted Kuroo’s arm again. “And I knocked a kid over! I bet you’re mad. This mountain is cool, though, you know, it’s what happens here.”

Kuroo found it hard to take what Bokuto was saying seriously; the snowboarder’s impudence was a sight to behold. “Yeah, you… just knocked a kid over. Just went and pushed a little kid into the snow.”

Bokuto quirked an eyebrow. His mouth was screwed up in another grin. “Yeah, I sure did. Sorry?” He broke out in another whooping laugh “Sorry!” He laughed with his whole body, throwing his head back and gripping his arms. His friends were laughing too, watching him and following his lead.

Kuroo could feel himself growing more irritated. “You got anything to say?”

“Look, uh, ski instructor— wait! You haven’t told me your name!”

“Kuroo Tetsurou.” His voice was monotone.

“Right! Kuroo! I’m real sorry about your kid, I’m sure that he’s a great kid. I’m certain that he’s absolutely fantastic. Stupendous kid.” Bokuto was gesturing in the air with his left hand as he continued to appropriate Kuroo’s personal space. “But you gotta understand that this is what happens. Kids get knocked over. I knocked a kid over, and I guess that it’s a huge deal. We do all sorts of shit, Kuroo.” Bokuto gestured over to the rest of his friends. “I’m real sorry about it.” He sucked in a breath. “But you gotta learn, we really don’t care.” His sarcasm was cutting and he was clearly holding back another laugh.

Kuroo was so far gone at this point that all he could do was stare back with his mouth hung open, completely indignant.

“You alright?” Bokuto’s voice was amused.

“Yeah, I’m fine. You just— You just pushed a kid into a fucking ditch, though, so apologise maybe? If not to him, then to me? Yeah?”

“Hey, it’s not like this doesn’t happen every day. Lighten up, dude.”

Kuroo rose to his challenge. “No, I don’t think I will, nah. You’re gonna come with me, and you’re gonna apologise to that kid. Unless, that is, you wanna get kicked off the mountain.”

Bokuto and his friends all exchanged looks, before simultaneously doubling over in hysterical laugher. It was loud and obnoxious and with each passing second Kuroo could feel himself going redder. Did he not have the power to threaten that? In truth, he didn’t know. Bokuto looked up at him for a second, just to be sure he was serious, before throwing his head back again to further Kuroo’s embarrassment. It took them thirty seconds to calm down, and by then the poor ski instructor had deflated completely.

It had been decided wordlessly by the entire group that now was the time to leave. “I’ll see you around, Kuroo.” Bokuto slapped him on the shoulder, and flashed a grin. “Don’t you go tattling on me to your boss now, yeah? We wouldn’t want that.” He squeezed Kuroo’s arm a second time. Bokuto and his friends took off in a flurry of snow, shouting, and whooping, and with one final wink from Bokuto. Kuroo thought he was going to punch something. Instead, he stood there with his mouth open.

A violated, almost insulted feeling had taken hold of Kuroo— that, and a strong sense of something out of his control. Who was this? Who did he think he was? How could this guy go around at Niseko, exuding confidence and doing and saying whatever he wanted? Aside from being irritating, it was almost impressive.

By the time Kuroo got back to his kids, Yamaguchi had gotten yanked out of the ditch by Lev and Tsukki collectively, while Hinata cheered them on, Kageyama looked sullen, and Kenma played his snow-covered PSP. Yamaguchi had collected snow all the way up his back beneath his coat, and it took serious coaxing to get him to take it off so they could get it out. The poor boy looked like a freezerburnt popsicle, and Kuroo promised him they’d let him off at the base lodge at the end of the run.

“Are you okay, Kuroo?” Tsukki asked him, after they’d reconvened a few minutes later, a trail down the mountain.

Kuroo was still in a state of bewilderment. “Yeah.” He broke into a crooked grin and shook his head. “Those guys, though? The ones who pushed Yam? Man.” Kageyama and Hinata had bugged him about the interaction earlier, but he had to brush them off. “Nothing, just a bunch of idiots,” he’d told them.

“What.” Tsukki rubbed the condensation off the inside of his goggles. They were clumped together at a busy intersection while Hinata and Kageyama argued over which trail to pick.

“That guy, his name was Bokuto. He was a total fucking idiot. He was just—” Kuroo buried his face in his hands. “God, he was just so fucking dumb.”

Tsuki was laughing. “What? That’s it? I thought something weird happened.”

Kuroo threw his hands in the air. “No! See, it was weird! He was just totally brazen about it. He was like ‘yeah, I totally knocked that kid over. We do shit all the time.’ He just didn’t care. It was freaky. He was touchy, too.”

Tsukki made a face. “Yamaguchi is okay, though.” He glanced over at the still-shivering boy. “That’s what matters, right? Don’t get caught up in all this.”

It was Kuroo’s turn to make a face. “I’m not getting caught up in anything. It’s just that he was rude to me.” He considered this for a moment. “He was downright obnoxious to me.”

“Yeah, no. I knew it. You’re concerned about your pride.”

“No—”

“You don’t like the fact that he treaded all over you. You went over there thinking you were gonna totally rip them a new one—”

“I did not—”

“-- and it totally bugged you that he didn’t give a shit about your status. You don’t really care about Yam getting pushed. No, that random dude totally just got to you.”

Kuroo frowned and considered his words. There was a moment of silence. “Shut up. Go ski.” Kuroo pointed him away.

“I’m right.” Tsuki pulled his goggles down and made a chiding noise.

Another pause. Tsukki had already turned away. Kuroo scowled. “He didn’t get to me!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting chapters sporadically thanks to school and the ridiculous amount of assignments we're getting this quarter, but as of right now I've got about four and a half chapters written out of what I anticipate to be ten. Again, this isn't betaed, but I edit faithfully so hopefully whatever mistakes or syntax errors there are aren't too bad. Enjoy!

By five o’clock on Fridays, the upper level of Niskeo’s base lodge was littered with drunken ski instructors and village shop employees. Kuroo, boasting the proud age of 20 years, was just old enough to drink and had no qualms with abusing this ability. After the lifts closed at four there was always a grace period of twenty minutes or so while the last of the skiers packed up, where the employees had to hinder their enthusiasm to get to the lodge and appropriate the bar’s selection of alcohol, and in doing so could often be seen awkwardly meandering their way from the village towards the lifts with no apparent goal in mind. Kuroo, having the privilege of being on the mountain all day, had to make no such journey and therefore was often in the company of his fellow instructors and boss— who, too, joined in with the university students’ alcohol consumption and often got embarrassingly drunk because of it. It was on the Friday of the Yamaguchi incident that Kuroo was trying desperately to explain what had happened to his boss, but at this point Ukai was so far gone that Oikawa kept insisting to Kuroo that the man was asleep. Kuroo, in a similar state, couldn’t distinguish whether he was or not, but continued to try and tell the story anyways.

“It was…” Kuroo and Oikawa had come over to Ukai’s table and quickly took over most of it with their drinks and limbs. Kuroo was making a drunken but genuine attempt at recalling the day’s events. “It was on the Black Bear trail, it was at the junction of the… the Black Bear trail and North Glade, and there was this guy!” Kuroo threw an arm in the air, and Oikawa grabbed it and slowly pulled it back down. “This snowboard guy, and Yamaguchi was in the ditch. All of a sudden, and Tsukki was annoyed at me, that bitch, and this guy. I tell you. Oh! He was!”

“He was what?” Ukai had one eye open, the other half of his face hidden by his arm, both of which were folded over the table so he could doze off.

“Rude!” Kuroo exclaimed. He leaned in. “That’s what I said! He was rude!”

“Like…” Oikawa was struggling to come up with the word. “What.”

“What?”

“Rude like what. How was he rude.”

“Oh.” Kuroo leaned back and tipped his head back, as if looking at the ceiling would help him recall. The chair almost fell over. “He wouldn’t listen to me. He laughed at me... There were a bunch of them. And he touched me, too!” Kuroo gripped Oikawa’s shoulder to demonstrate. “Like, a lot! Touchy boy!”

Oikawa’s eyes were wide. “What?”

“He was annoying.” Kuroo nodded into Oikawa’s shoulder, where he’d placed his forehead. “Awful man. Pushed Yam into a ditch then wouldn’t say sorry and laughed at me. I’m gonna… fight.”

“Pushed Yamaguchi into a ditch, and touched you.”

“Not like… felt me up.” Kuroo lifted his head and laughed. “Not in front of everyone. Now that’d be funny. But he had no personal space— I mean, gave me no… I had no space.”

“You shoulda… told someone,” Ukai mumbled into his forearm.

Kuroo almost shot out of his seat. “I am!” His arm was back in the air, and Oikawa was reaching for it again. “I am telling you right now, Ukai, I am telling… God, I need to fight him.”

“No you don’t.” Oikawa said this quickly and definitively. He held his alcohol, and Kuroo’s arm, better than anyone else Kuroo knew. “We don’t even really... know what he looks like.”

“Or if he’s coming back.” Kuroo deflated as this dawned on him. He sat back down when Oikawa yanked him.

“What did he look like?” Ukai looked up.

“Uh.” Kuroo tipped his head back again. “He shorter than me, kinda big though, yellow jacket. No mask, he was…. No goggles, no hat, I don’t think he had snow pants on—“

“Was he wearing anything.” Oikawa was defeated.

“Yes, yellow jacket.” Kuroo looked at him intently.

Oikawa paused. “Did you say that?”

“Yes, I said he had a yellow—”

“I didn’t know you said that.”

Kuroo rubbed his face. “Okay.” He waited a second, then looked back at Ukai. “Actually I think the jacket had black too.”

Oikawa groaned quietly.

“Anyways, he wouldn’t listen to me. He kept… laughing, and his buddies would keep laughing too. I’m gonna fight him. I got so mad, he really… He got to me, and Tsukki could tell, that fucking kid, and he didn’t give a shit he was so brazen and in my face and I did nothing!” Kuroo turned to Oikawa, looking alarmed. He grabbed his boyfriend’s forearm. “Nothing, Oikawa! I didn’t do anything!”

“Race him,” Ukai mumbled.

Kuroo let go of Oikawa’s arm and looked at Ukai. Both of them were silent. Ukai lifted his head, rubbed at his nose, and looked up at the two. “What.”

Oikawa was the one to speak. “Race him?”

“Yeah.” Ukai was indignant. He took another sip of his beer.

Oikawa’s gaze flicked between Kuroo and Ukai. “Why would that… How is that a good idea?”

“Well,” Ukai blinked heavily. “You clearly can’t fight him. It would be funny, but as your manager I can’t endorse it.”

“He was bigger than me.” Kuroo now had his chin on the top of a beer bottle and mumbled this with his eyes averted. “Like, not taller than me, I’m the tallest person probably... ever, but he was bigger.”

“Exactly. So if you, I dunno, wanna get back at him or something, just race him. I know you used to race, I’ve seen you; you’re fast as hell. Next time you see him just go confront him about it again. I can get you one of the trails cleared for long enough, we can do if after hours if necessary. It’ll be fun to watch.”

Oikawa was struggling to come up with a reply. “But— but what if he doesn’t see him again?”

Ukai shrugged. “Then he doesn’t.”

“But he’s also a snowboarder! You can’t have a fair race between a skier and a snowboarder!” Oikawa was gripping the edge of the table.

“I don’t see why you couldn’t.” Ukai scratched at his stubble. “It’s not like it would be an official thing. It’s just that Kuroo is really pent up over whatever the hell this is, and I think beating him in a race would be a good way to get over—”

“I’ll race him.” Kuroo cut him off. Belatedly, he stood up out of his chair. “I’ll race him.” He put both hands on the table. “Absolutely, next time I see that fucker, I’ll go up and challenge him to a goddamn race, and I’ll beat him.”

Oikawa was stunned. “Kuroo—” he began, but shut his mouth. He reached up and tugged at Kuroo’s sleeve. “Kuroo, you can’t.”

“Why not?” Kuroo retracted his arm out of the other man’s reach. “You don’t even know what happened.”

OIkawa’s brows knitted together. “You just told us what happened, and it doesn’t seem like that big of a deal. Are you really gonna get back into this all because of some guy?”

Kuroo was silent and red in the face, and his gaze flicked across the table.

“What.” Oikawa said.

Ukai was staring at the two of them, his beer bottle pinched between two fingers. “Now,” he said, “what’s all this about?”

“What—” Kuroo stuttered.

“Why don’t you—” he jabbed a finger at Oikawa, “want him—” he shifted the same finger to Kuroo, “to race this guy? It’d be fun.” Ukai was frowning at them.

Oikawa and Kuroo returned to silence.

“It’s nothing.” Kuroo said. “It’s—”

“We have a history.” Oikawa muttered.

“We don’t!” Kuroo stared down at Oikawa angrily. “Absolutely not. I can race him.” He turned to Ukai. “I’ll absolutely race him.”

Ukai was just as silent as before. “Do you have a history? An accident or something?”

“Yes,” Kuroo rushed out, “but it’s fine now. It’s fixed.”

“No, it’s not fixed—”

“I can race him.”

Oikawa was silent. He folded his arms.

“I can race him.” Kuroo repeated to Ukai. “It’s not a problem. Next time I see him I’ll confront him about it and call you. We can have it arranged. It’ll be good.”

Oikawa turned his chin away and stared off across the lodge.

“Alright.” Ukai said. He was looking at Oikawa. “Then it’s settled.”

“Perfect.” Kuroo sat back down with a grin. “I’ll fucking destroy him.”

 

~~~

 

In the two weeks between The Yamaguchi Incident and the moment Kuroo got hold of him again, Bokuto had become a local legend at Niseko. He and his group of friends were known to be on the mountain every day, characterized by the snowboarder in the yellow jacket and his ridiculously loud laugh. The “Bra Tree” at Niskeo—a tall oak littered with plastic necklaces and undergarments thrown onto it by those passing by on the main lift—was being added to again after years of stagnance. It was assumed by the masses that Kotarou and his group were responsible. Kuroo’s kids and the other groups talked about him like he was an idol.

“Ennoshita says he saw him yesterday on the terrain park. He was doing flips and shit, gathered a crowd and everything.”

“I heard that he can do a doublechuk off the eastern half-pipe.”

“He can! My friend saw it!”

“What does that even mean?”

“Man, I’ve only seen videos of him. It’d be so cool to like… meet him.”

Kuroo even heard some of the other employees talking about Bokuto. Some would brag about getting a glimpse of him boarding the lifts, others scoffed at the snowboarder’s antics, others claimed that they’d hooked up with his friends. The entire situation made Kuroo furious. Every time one of his coworkers brought him up, he’d ask: “Do you know where he is?” They’d always say no. After a while, some accused him of having an obsession. Kuroo, in truth, was just eager to race the fucker, and with every day that he got more famous Kuroo grew more and more worried that Bokuto was going to get kicked off the mountain. 

Kenma, of all people, was the one to finally spot him in person for Kuroo. They were doing a quick run along the eastern trails to let Lev loosen up after getting stuck in the glades, and Kenma was trying to hide the fact that he was playing his PSP from Kuroo; in the process he skied directly into Bokuto. Bokuto, to everyone’s amusement, almost fell over.

At the time Bokuto only had two of his friends with him: a tall blonde wearing nothing to keep warm but a hat, and a smaller dark-haired high school student who caught Kenma and set him back upright. Kuroo, after recovering from the initial shock of “Holy Fuck, There He Is,” made quick business of skiing over and reintroducing himself.

“Kuroo Tetsurou. You remember me.” Determined not to come off as submissive, he jabbed a finger at Bokuto’s chest. Kenma was standing there staring at him just inches away.

Kenma bulged out his eyes. “Kuroo—”

“Shush.”

Bokuto was dusting himself off as he looked up at the two, having ignored Kuroo’s finger. After a moment’s consideration, he threw his head back in a whooping laugh. “Kuroo! Ski instructor bro!” He squinted and leaned forward to get in Kuroo’s face. “Is it you?” 

Kuroo’s mouth made a line. “Yeah.”

Bokuto leaned back in another laugh, far enough to almost tip over. “It’s so nice to see you again! Oh, you’re the one with the kid I kicked.” Bokuto clapped him on the shoulder twice. “Funny, the other day I signed an autograph for that kid. The awkward one, right? He’s a hoot. Loves me.” He wore a grin proudly. “So good to see you.”

Kuroo’s jaw tightened immediately. Yamaguchi, of all his kids? He could see Tsukki turning on him, but not in a million years Yamaguchi. “I’m—” He gathered himself, as he knew his school group was behind him watching. “Kenma, go back to Tsukki.” He put a careful hand on Kenma’s shoulder and crouched down to direct him away.

Kuroo stood back up once Kenma was gone, to meet Bokuto’s amused gaze. He sucked in a large breath. “I’m gonna race you, yeah? I’ve decided.”

Both of Bokuto’s eyebrows shot up. He was clearly holding back another bout of laughter; his friends exchanged a glance behind him.

“Kuroo, buddy, we’ve just met again. It’s been, what, two weeks? I’ve blown up! Oh, you’ve probably seen! It’s incredible!” He held out both arms. “What’s this about all of a sudden?” Bokuto was talking to him as if they’d known each other for years.

Kuroo, perhaps, had never been more irked. “You ticked me off that last time, you know? You’re acting like an asshole, you still are, and so we’re gonna settle this.” He tipped his chin up. “I can’t fight you, so we’re gonna settle it like skiers. We’re gonna race.”

Within seconds, Bokuto was  _ howling.  _ He clutched at his stomach and threw his head back, going red in the face, his goggles falling off his forehead into the snow. His dark-haired friend scrambled to collect them.

“You wanna…” Bokuto stopped to suck in a breath. He was bent over with his hands on his knees, recovering from his fit. “You wanna race?” Another gasp.  _ “Me?” _

Kuroo didn’t know what to do. He stood there and tried to radiate indignance, as if Bokuto laughing at him hadn’t made his neck burn. He shuffled his mask a little higher up. “Yeah. What, you not up for it? Already figured out I’m gonna beat you?”

His group of kids let out a quiet “Oooooh!” Kuroo silently thanked them, and tried to absorb their confidence boost.

“No, I—” Bokuto tripped up for a moment. He seemed genuinely surprised at Kuroo’s front. His friends exchanged a look behind him. “No, it’s just that you’re, well.” He gestured to Kuroo in general. “You’re just a ski instructor,” he snickered.

“Yeah?” Kuroo lifted his chin again, and prayed that his voice didn’t waver. “In that case, I guess you’ll have no problem beating me.”

Bokuto’s expression was alarmed.

“Since, you know, I’m just a ski instructor.” Kuroo shrugged.

Bokuto, after a moment’s hesitation, flashed a dangerous smirk, and Kuroo mirrored it.

He jumped into his practiced monologue. “Meet me at the top of the sunbowl tomorrow at 7 PM. If you’ve got plans, cancel them. People are gonna show up. It’s gonna be a thing. Me versus you, alright? My manager’s already got things planned, yeah?” He gestured between them with his pole swinging from his wrist. His confidence had somehow made its way back to him, and he held the snowboarder’s gaze firmly.

Bokuto tilted his head back. Kuroo reminded himself that he was still taller. “Alright, then.” He sounded thoughtful, even interested. Behind him, his friends nodded slowly.

Kuroo squinted and nodded back. He held out his fist on impulse and said, “Pound it.”

Bokuto stared at him, and then proceeded to pound it.

Entirely despite themselves, the two laughed.

 

~~~

 

Kuroo could be found ten minutes later at the mid-mountain lodge in the middle of a group of junior high students with his phone pressed between his cheek and his shoulder. He was clutching at a cup of hot cocoa and dodging the spitballs fired back and forth between Kageyama and Hinata. Tsukki was complaining for them to get back on the mountain already. Kuroo shushed him and muttered something into his phone.

“Yeah,” he said, “I finally got a hold of him, too. I said tomorrow, sunbowl, at 7 PM, so we’ll need to get the lights working.” A pause. “Why 7 PM? Because I wanted it took be dark and shit. For the atmosphere. I want music playing, I want there to be lights, and I want people to hear about it by tonight, all the instructors, the lift employees—” He scowled. “No, dude, I can help you coordinate it. It’ll be fine.” 

Hinata shouted something; Kenma was hoarding a bag of skittles Kuroo had bought to occupy them. Lev was trying to steal Tsukki’s hat, Yamaguchi was sneezing, Kageyama’s arm was suddenly in Kuroo’s face. Kuroo looked up from his cup of cocoa and stared across the lodge with a smirk.

“I’m telling you, Ukai, it’s gonna be fucking huge.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hm things get mildly saucy here. enjoy the skiing and the tension B]  
> ALSO !  
> i'm still looking for a beta! even if you're not super experienced, feel free 2 send me an ask on tumblr @ birdcat, i'm just seeking feedback for before i post! thnkx all

Bokuto “That Fucking Snowboarder” Kotarou, as it turned out, was also capable of skiing.

Skiing very, very fast.

 

He brought along with him a grand total of twenty friends. Enough for a hockey team, Ukai was kind enough to observe. When they showed up at the venue— fifteen minutes late— Kuroo had already worked himself into a nervous fit.

They came barreling through the trail above down into the head of the sunbowl like some collective beast. There was a whistling noise, then a figure appeared beneath one of the lights, followed only then by a horde of skiers one after another, each faster than the last. The crowd that had gathered had all turned and stared as they came streaming down one by one; the group commanded the trail the moment they entered. Kuroo didn’t realize it was them until they all stopped and took their goggles off.

There was a crowd of employees and mountain regulars, maybe thirty in total, spread along the head of the sunbowl, with others milling around the base asking what was going on. Word had spread quickly the moment Kuroo called Ukai and told him about the race that afternoon— Kuroo figured his boss was the most ambitious and astute publicist he knew, especially when it came to shifty spite-fueled races between guests and employees that broke 10 different mountain rules at once. By the time Kuroo came in for the afternoon at the lodge to get ready, people were swarming him, asking him excitedly about what the hell happened to make him so mad at this “Bokuto” guy and why on earth he was racing him. Kuroo was, to say the least, impressed.

The thing about Bokuto’s squad was that every single one of them was on skis. From Bokuto’s spry dark-haired friend to the tall-and-scary blond one, each had forgone their snowboard and chosen to ski instead— and not a single one of them was bad at it. Beneath the lights, they all stood for a moment, whether to soak in the attention or to figure out what was going on, Kuroo couldn’t tell. Bokuto was scanning the crowd then, picking at the zipper of his coat.

Ukai kindly clapped Kuroo on the back to usher him over, and with a pained expression and a pounding chest, Kuroo approached Bokuto and his friends.

“Hey.” Kuroo called. He attempted another casual chin-lift motion, but his mask ended up sliding off his face.

Bokuto turned around along with the rest of the crowd. There was a rising murmur as people realized what was going on, a couple shouts of, “There they are!” “Are they gonna go at it?” “Wasn’t he a snowboarder?” Kuroo tensed his hand around his pole and forced himself to speak. “Skis, yeah?” He gestured to Bokuto’s feet.

Bokuto looked at him in surprise— or mock surprise, Kuroo couldn’t tell. Bokuto had a mask up and his goggles around his neck, his obnoxious yellow jacket worn like a status symbol. He wasn’t wearing a helmet. “Skis, yeah.” He lifted up a foot and put it back down with a slapping noise. “You surprised? Think I was gonna race you on a board?”

Kuroo forced his calm and lifted his chin. Bokuto on skis was a menace he didn’t anticipate having to face. “No, I just didn’t know you could ski.”

“Huh. We’ll yeah, they’re faster, so.” Bokuto was staring at him perplexedly. “We gonna go at it now, yeah? I’m ready. No goggles, huh?” He poked Kuroo’s chest lightly and squinted.

Kuroo didn’t know whether to interpret it as affectionate or challenging, so he had no choice but to let the sudden rush of adrenaline pool in his gut and sit there. His mouth made a tight line. “Not for me.”

“Yeah, huh? Okay, I’m still wearin’ mine.” Bokuto laughed quietly. He grabbed Kuroo’s shoulder and squeezed, and Kuroo cursed him.

“‘Alright.” Kuroo stared out across the crowd. They were all still watching, Bokuto’s friends now interspersed at the fringes, talking loudly and shooting looks their way. Kuroo made eye contact with Ukai, who understood, and hurried over to stand in front of the two of them.

“We’re, uh, gonna start now.” Ukai announced. An enthusiastic roar erupted from the crowd before them. Someone had brought a cooler of beer, another had a kid on their shoulders. Kuroo’s colleagues were surprisingly irresponsible after hours.

Bokuto and Kuroo were ushered together by Ukai to stand side-by-side at the head of the trail, where the crowd had parted to make space for them.

“We’re doing this Niseko style, everyone; in case you hadn’t noticed.” Ukai was speaking to the crowd again, poles waving from each hand. “You all can follow behind after a while if you want, but give them plenty of space.”

“Niskeo style?” Bokuto looked at Kuroo, lost. His eyes shone bright with alarm even through tinted goggles.

“Yeah, uh.” Kuroo hurried to whisper to him; both were hunched over in starting position and Ukai was still getting people riled up. Up close before a race, there was always a sort of tense intimacy between the skiers that made it difficult to speak normally. “It’s how all the informal races are done here. There’s no timer or anything to time individual racers, the skiers just go down the trail all at the same time and whichever one reaches the finishing line first wins, with big groups even, sometimes, there really aren’t too many rules, it— uh, it can get violent.” He let out a quiet laugh just as he realized what he was saying. He felt his vision obscure. Something cold was pooling in his gut, and he hurried to pull his mask back up over his face before Bokuto could notice.

“Alright, man, but I’m not gonna fight you or anything.” Bokuto’s voice sounded far-away, pitched through a tunnel at him and light at the ends with laugher.

“Yeah,” Kuroo’s world was tilted on its end. _Oikawa._ “Thanks, man,” he managed. _Where is he?_

He shot a look over his shoulder, eyes shot open wide and unprotected, just as Ukai spun around to signal their start, arm flying down, mouth moving to make sounds in slow motion. Kuroo reached out with an arm to try and stop him, to tell him to wait, that he needed to go and find his boyfriend, but the speed of light and the speed of sound were cruel in their difference.

“GO!”

_Oikawa has been avoiding me all day._

The world came back to him like a furious pounding, the instant sharpening of a lens into acute focus that he wasn’t prepared for. Bokuto seemed to shoot out of a gun beside him, like a canon had launched him and his laughter and his yellow coat out off the top of the trail until he was gliding steeply, almost serenely, out in a slick wavering line down and out beneath him. Kuroo figured it took him a solid five seconds to move from where he’d started; he he felt a hand on his arm and a voice asking if he was alright, but by then he’d already flung himself down the trail with reckless abandon. Years-old instincts kicked in and he was scraping, streaming down the ice and snow with a constant rhythm back and forth, left and right.

_I am the dumbest ass motherfucker on this whole goddamn planet._

The powder came back to him like a habit. He had no time to think, nor the need to think. His skis moved beneath him like an extension of his body, two slices of air that he only need only request to move, and they should move. The shock of the starting gate hung with him. It was a ringing in his ears and a film over his vision that muffled his senses and left little but one thought with him:

_Oikawa is gonna dump my sorry ass._

Bokuto carried speed well. He was large, bulky, even, but he maneuvered and held form well enough that Kuroo took a long time to catch up. From the back, Bokuto was an enigma, a flashing spot of yellow and black weaving in and out of Kuroo’s line of sight like a bumblebee. Kuroo was taller and leaner and relied on skill, not sheer force to reach competitive levels of speed. Even out of practice, it came back to him easily— the sunbowl itself was an easy trail, meant for families and beginner skiers and one of the few that could be used at night. It was totally straight, wide and steep only at the top, bumped shallowly and overused enough that moguls were impermissible. Despite being shaken and full of dread, Kuroo had no doubt that he was going to win.

Bokuto looked over his shoulder more and more as Kuroo neared. Before Kuroo knew it they were halfway down, Kuroo having let go of his initial shock, and the trail was narrowing. As the sunbowl’s pitch lessened, it grew more and more narrow. The trees began to press into a funnel that drained out into the base camp, where a crowd was gathered to receive them.

Bokuto, looking back, must have seen some of the observers following them down the trail— as was permitted in an informal race— and he reached around to wave momentarily.

_Cocky bastard._

Kuroo dodged and ducked around the trees’ branches at the edge of the trail. Kuroo always hugged the edge; on an overworked trail like this good snow could only be found at the brink of the woods and the snow. Even on the well-groomed and maintained terrain of competition trails, Kuroo was known to lurk at the edges and remain unnoticed, then swoop across the trail at the final stretch to cut the others off and steal away the victory. Age 18, at his competitive peak, he was jokingly referred to as a black cat— as when he crossed your path, it was very bad luck. Oikawa never let the nickname go, and would shame the poor man for it endlessly. (Kuroo secretly thought it was cool.) Now, as he thought of it, he laughed. Bokuto had no prior knowledge of his tactics: they should work without fail. A new surge of confidence took over Kuroo.

Bokuto had slowed. Kuroo was nearing, and growing more determined with each swipe of his poles. Bokuto kept looking over his shoulder to try and spot him, to no avail. Kuroo kept an obsessive eye on him: whenever Bokuto would move to look back, Kuroo would press closer to the edge. It was growing more and more risky as he neared, but the finishing line was in sight and he was just ready to fly across the trail and catch him by surprise. Bokuto swerved around a bump in the trail, and then snapped his head to the side to lock eyes with Kuroo.

“Fuck.” The word was muffled through his mask.

_Bokuto must have known,_ Kuroo thought, _Bokuto must have seen me before he actually looked at me, or else he wouldn’t have turned to the right so confidently._

Bokuto then dived to the right to pressure Kuroo deeper towards the woods. He was right beside the other skier without warning, leaning in until their skis were threatening to touch; using Kuroo’s own tactic against him viciously. Kuroo kept ducking, pushing back against Bokuto whenever a tree flew by, but Bokuto was heavier and stronger and kept him pinned to the underbrush like a vice. His precision was impressive: he was wary to not cross their skis lest they become a tangled mess, but kept his right shoulder close enough to fiddle with the other man’s balance. Kuroo’s opportunity to squeak by at the last second had been stolen away, his momentum butchered by Bokuto’s mass and his confidence deflated.

“Fuck.” Kuroo spat it into his mask and shoved hard, jabbing his shoulder against the material of Bokuto’s coat in a last-ditch effort to get away.

Bokuto was still there, only now leaning forward and to the right to drive Kuroo’s upper body further towards the woods. Bokuto said something, an aggressive muddle of words that got swept away by the wind— Kuroo was grateful he couldn’t make it out. Bokuto’s blatant use of force had him cursing, ducking faster and pressing back harder, and making no progress in retreating from the underbrush.

Bokuto shoved him hard, then; hard enough to push his entire body off of him. Kuroo had a blackout moment, believing he was being thrown directly into a tree, but recovered with the knowledge that Bokuto had pushed him into a side trail: one of the ones that skiers cut out of the woods that re-merged after a few feet.

It was icy, and dug out deep through overuse, and Kuroo’s skis almost got caught on the trees lingering by the edge. He had too much speed to go through it with any sort of control. The trees and bushes whipped past him in a blur, it was all he could do to avoid being struck by them.

“Fuck you— _Fuck you,_ ” he spat, catching sight of Bokuto’s shoulders, which were now disappearing swiftly down the final stretch of the trail. A bewildered sort of rage sunk in, as he realized that the blasted idiot was going to beat him. Kuroo’s tactics had never been taken advantage of before— never so boldly, and never by a skier so strong. Even skiers that went into races having seen actual video footage of what Kuroo could do never attempted to corner him into the woods: either they couldn’t spot him, or fear kept them away. Kuroo would have assumed that Bokuto went in not knowing his tactics, but the way he kept looking back for him, and the way he pinned him to the woods the moment he got a chance had Kuroo wondering if someone had tipped him off. In Kuroo’s mind, the only people who knew enough of his skiing history to do so were Ukai, Yaku, Suga, and Oikawa.

_What if it was Oikawa?_

Kuroo was numb at the thought of it.

Numb enough to blind him to the fact that he was about to get hit in the face by a tree.

Kuroo cursed, again. The branch struck him just above the eyes— a pine tree, with cold-hardened needles that hung low enough to clip taller persons in the face. Ice clung to it, spattering across his face and neck. It stung sharp and forced his eyes shut for an uncomfortable period of time: he’d gotten out of the side trail before he reopened them. When he did, there was blood and cold water streaming down his face.

“Fuck, fuck— fuck!” He’d been hit hard, and shock rattled through him like a wave on impact. Had he been going at a reasonable speed, he would have seen it coming— or if he hadn’t been caught up in thinking about Oikawa, he could have had the presence of mind to duck. He was now free of the woods, but below him, the finishing line was in sight; as was a speeding Bokuto.

Kuroo crudely rubbed the blood from his face, spitting into the snow and taking off once more. Bokuto was going to win, but he promised himself that it wasn’t going to be by much.

At the core of things, Kuroo was duly impressed by the other skier. Beneath the seeping blood and the spitting and cursing, he was completely taken aback. From the moment Bokuto showed up, he’d commanded the space— commanded Kuroo’s mindset, the trail, and the crowd’s attention. Bokuto was a magnet, something of a local legend, and a ferocious competitor. Kuroo found it exhilarating to be put up against him: a privilege, almost. Had Bokuto not incapacitated him so effectively, Kuroo would have actually beaten him. Something flared up in his gut at the thought of it.

The last stretch of the sunbowl was narrow and icy, and Bokuto was almost all the way out of it. It funneled down into the large flat of the base lodge, where a crowd was now gathered. Kuroo looked over his shoulder, where there were maybe a dozen observers trailing them slowly. He let out a long breath and pressed on harder now, squinting into the frigid air and ducking forward into a streamlined position. The blood seeping out of his forehead was freezing to his skin and dripping around his eyes; Kuroo aligned his trajectory with the trail’s exit as well as he could, whispered a prayer, and let his eyes shut, knowing that keeping them open would spell certain blindness.

“Fuck you.” He whispered into the dark. “Fuck you, Bokuto.” He was laughing quietly. He told himself he was furious, but the grin on his face belied him.

A thundering roar erupted from the crowd at the bottom, and Kuroo knew Bokuto had made it.

Kuroo pulled in not ten seconds later, to a similar reaction from his coworkers. Immediately, he began to fumble with his gloves and reach for his forehead. He swiped blood and water so desperately from his eyes only to look around for Oikawa— the race was over for him the moment Bokuto crossed the finish line, he now only sought his boyfriend, and to apologise. He hadn’t told Oikawa about the race, though he was certain word had spread far enough that Oikawa would know. Kuroo understood that he was in for a beating, and a righteous one at that.

A few colleagues came up to him eagerly, asking questions a million miles an hour, others patting him on the back in consolation. Bokuto was there already with his skis off, his mask and goggles pulled down, panting and wearing a ridiculous grin. He’d amassed a crowd of kids and adults, giving out high fives, receiving enthusiastic congratulations, and hearty claps on the back that would have toppled a lesser man. Notably, there was snow caked into his hair and one of his pole straps was missing. Kuroo hummed in satisfaction and pulled his mask down; he guessed Bokuto hadn’t gotten off so easily either.

The initial rise of enthusiasm over Kuroo’s arrival had soon been squandered by the discovery of his forehead. Several of his colleagues milled about him now, asking urgent questions and digging in their pockets for something to help soak up the blood. Those who had followed them down the trail were now peeling in and stopping quietly, eyeing the hushed crowd. Kuroo tried to brush everyone off, explaining feebly that he needed to find someone, but the collective concern rose in concert with the volume, and within minutes most seemed to know of his forehead injury.

“Are you concussed?” one kid asked. He’d been pulling on Kuroo’s arm for the past thirty seconds.

“What, no?” Kuroo was craning his neck, trying to click out of his skis and work his way out of the crowd. He spotted another kid tugging on Bokuto’s sleeve at the other end of the crowd; he just made out the words:

“Bokuto, Kuroo’s got hurt— forehead—- race—”

The snowboarder whipped his head around and locked eyes with Kuroo.

“Oh my god.”

Bokuto turned away from his impromptu gathering of fans and hobbled over as fast as ski boots would allow, reaching out with his right arm for Kuroo’s face. Kuroo, on reflex, ducked away, as did several employees.

“What?”

Bokuto was wildly alarmed. “Are you okay? Your head!”

“Yes.”

“What happened to your head?”

“I got hit by a tree branch when you pushed me into that thing.” Kuroo paused, Bokuto was staring blankly. There was a crowd around them, and Kuroo was painfully uncomfortable. “It’s fine, please let me—”

“Oh my god, really?” Belatedly, Bokuto put his hands to his head. “Is it alright? It looks like it’s still bleeding, do you need something to help? Oh god, it’s my fault. Do you need anything—”

“It’s fine.” Kuroo continued to duck away from him, squinting into the dark for anyone who resembled Oikawa. He grabbed Bokuto’s shoulder to crane his neck up higher. “I’m trying to find this one guy, have you seen—”

“Kuroo, I feel so bad. It happened when I pushed you into that thing, right?” Bokuto sounded absolutely devastated. “Oh my god, I shouldn’t have done that, I wasn’t thinking, why did I do that? I am so, so sorry, oh my god. That was so uncool of me. This is totally my fault, I cannot believe I did that to you. I wasn’t thinking.”

Kuroo stopped trying to dodge away and actually took a look at Bokuto. The snowboarder, normally eager and jolly to the point of being obnoxious, was grief-stricken and pleading; it was an upsetting sight to see. “It’s fine, man, it’s just part of the race.”

“But I…”

Kuroo urged himself not to get caught up in Bokuto’s emotions. “Don’t stress about it. I need to find this guy, can I—”

“No, really. I feel, like, really shitty.” He put both hands on Kuroo’s shoulders, more gently than before.

Kuroo went still. Every time Bokuto had touched him before now, it had been a challenge. He now touched him tentatively, hands hovering, asking permission. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Is there anything I can do?”

Kuroo breathed out. “It’s okay, man. I’m not mad at you.”

“Okay, that’s good— I, still…” Bokuto let go, looked down quickly, and began shuffling in his coat pockets. “Here.” With a smile, he held up a— clearly used— fabric air-activated hand warmer pouch, then began peeling off his gloves.

“What?”

“One second.” Bokuto’s voice was muffled, a glove stuffed in his mouth.

Kuroo stood and waited, defeated. “Okay.”

Bokuto, gloves now tucked beneath his arm, reached up with both hands to press the hand warmer to Kuroo’s forehead. It had lost most of its warmth, and felt more like an old bean bag than anything else.

Kuroo folded his lips together. “What.”

“You’re—” Bokuto stuck his tongue out slightly and squinted up at his handiwork, right hand still lingering. “You’re still bleeding, so.”

“I—” Kuroo went to reach up for it, but put his hands back down. “Okay. I guess this works.”

Bokuto grinned sheepishly. “Right? It kinda… absorbs it, yeah?” The hand warmer wasn’t absorbing it.

The two stood there in varying stages of embarrassment until Kuroo was merciful enough to reach up and pull Bokuto’s hands down. He said, “it’s fine,” and was incapable of doing anything else; the redness spreading across his face spoke for itself.

“Okay.” Bokuto was being _shy._ He reached to put the hand warmer back into his coat pocket but hesitated once he saw the blood on it. “Ah—”

“I’ll take it.” Kuroo snatched it from him a little enthusiastically. “Really, dude.” He scratched the back his neck, having tossed the bloodied thing into the snow. He tried his best to make eye contact. “It’s fine.” He was vaguely aware of a small crowd still loitering around them.

“Okay.”

Kuroo was remarkably eager to exchange a handshake and part ways at this point, but Bokuto hadn’t stopped looking at him and didn’t seem to have plans on doing so anytime soon. This was, incidentally, the first time Kuroo would describe Bokuto’s gaze as being “thoughtful.”

Bokuto breathed out something like a “yeah,” reached up on his toes, and pressed his lips to Kuroo’s forehead instead.

“Oh.” An improvement from the hand warmer, actually, was the first thought that ran through Kuroo’s head.

The second was something about Bokuto’s lips being warm, something about the hand now pressed to his neck; he couldn’t have articulated it if he tried.

And the third, and the most jarring, was that the guy he’d just now noticed, in a white jacket standing at the fringes of the crowd a few meters away, looked a lot like Oikawa.

Kuroo wanted to curse and pull away at the wave of fear that washed over him, but Bokuto had slid away now and was laughing only inches away from Kuroo’s face— an enticing distraction from the figure lingering in his peripheral vision. Kuroo, kicking himself, instantaneously gave in to Bokuto’s affections and pulled the other skier closer into a tight embrace. Bokuto was then laughing against his neck, sliding his arms around his waist, and within seconds Kuroo figured he was ready to collapse. Had he been wanting this?

He had, but only for two weeks, he told himself. He knew Bokuto probably didn’t mean anything by it, but this intimacy was welcome— perhaps painfully so.

The figure, whom Kuroo now had a clear view of from over Bokuto’s shoulder, stayed only a moment longer before turning and stalking away into the darkness. He was tall, thin, and had a slight limp on his right side.

_Fuck,_ Kuroo thought, and let himself relax further into Bokuto’s arms.

_Oikawa is going to kill me._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this update is LONG and EMOTIONAL and dialogue-heavy and i'm totally mean to you at the end so forgive me in advance
> 
> again, heavily self-edited but unbeated because i don't have one, hmu on tumblr @ birdcat if ur interested! i'd prefer someone who has writing/betaing experience but as it stands i have no room to be picky
> 
> enjoy ch 4! comments+kudos are appreciated they keep me going thru the long winter nights B)

“Don’t even tell me. Don’t even tell me.” Kuroo leaned back in his seat, laughing and covering up his face.

“I’m telling you!” Suga took his seat with a flourish and set down two drinks in front of them. He nudged one towards Kuroo encouragingly; he wore a brash smirk. “I did it. Again.”

“Suga, I must abstain— I must—” Kuroo’s speech was interrupted by bouts of laughter. He pushed the drink away from him blindly. “I cannot. Again— my god, you  _ devil. _ ”

Suga pinched a straw between his lips and tore off the wrapper. “Based on my knowledge of your purchase history at the Hirafu ski rental shop this season, I should think you wouldn’t have any problem accepting a five-dollar drink for free.”

Kuroo peeked out from between his fingers. “Fuck.” He breathed.

Suga _ cackled  _ at him.

“You’re dumb,” Kuroo said.

The pair, resigned now to their shoplifted refreshments, shared a devilish grin. Suga, for the second time this week, had snuck two to-go cups of their favorite hot chocolate from the place he worked; they now sat in the window seat of the near-identical coffee shop across the street drinking them defiantly.

“Sugawara Koushi, I do believe that one day, you are going to kill me.”

“Yeah.”

“Just give me a heads up when you do, yeah?”

“‘Kay.”

Kuroo sighed and took a long sip of his illegal beverage.

“Actually,” Suga twittled his straw around his finger and stared down at the cup. “I’m pretty sure I’m not gonna be the one to kill you.”

“Oh?” Kuroo raised an eyebrow, understanding the challenge in his friend’s voice.

“Yeah.” Suga leaned back after taking a cheeky sip. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned. “Pretty sure it’s gonna that snowboarder guy you always complain to me about. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d have a crush on him, hm? You’ve been real quiet about him lately.”

Kuroo’s face lit up. “Oh! Oh my god, I haven’t told you, have I?”

“No?”

“Yeah, well.” Kuroo ran a hand through his hair. “He and I are tight, now, heh.”

“Hm, why am I not surprised?”

“Yeah, we had a race and everything.”

“A race?”

“Yeah, mhm. I went and challenged him, ‘cause Ukai put it out there… He agreed to do it, and it went down last week at the sunbowl.”

“For real?”

Kuroo nodded. “Turns out that the bastard can ski, he and his friends all showed up on skis and shit, he’s got like twenty friends. A bunch of employees and kids showed up too, it was a thing. He beat me, ‘cause he knew about my tactics somehow. Someone must have told him. He uh, accidentally pushed me into a tree. It fucked up my forehead, but he apologised afterwards. Turns out to be a really sweet guy. His name’s Bokuto. We hung out just yesterday, actually.”

Suga’s mouth hung open. “Kuroo, you raced him?”

Kuroo puffed air against the lip of his straw to make it whistle. “Yeah.”

Suga went through several stages of confusion, anger, and surprise. “You raced him? Like, what, ‘Niskeo style?’ Like how you used to race against Oikawa?”

Kuroo was absent, staring out the window. “Yeah, I did.”

Suga made an incoherent noise. “Like— What? Like it was nothing? Like the accident didn’t happen?”

Kuroo turned his gaze to him, and shrugged. “Oikawa was chill with it, man.”

Suga had both hands on the table. “Was he? ‘Cause that’s not like Oikawa.”

“He’s okay with it. It’s worked out fine, Suga. What’s the deal? You’re hyped up and shit.” Kuroo fixed him an accusing look.

“It’s—” Suga deflated into his seat. “It just seems weird, yeah? I can’t see Oikawa letting you get back into racing, for one; I can’t see you  _ wanting _ to get back into racing, actually. I don’t wanna argue with you or anything. It just seems weird.”

“It’s not. Bokuto just provided me a reason to do it again. I dunno if it’s gonna become a regular thing or anything. I don’t think I wanna go back.”

“Have you really talked to Oikawa about this, though? The racing?”

“Yeah. He was whatever about it. I mentioned it to him after, ‘cause I was a little worried, but he said that what I did was fine. I think he might have been there, actually.”

“You’re only pretty sure? You didn’t invite him to the actual race?”

“He works Friday nights, so no. I dunno. I thought I might have seen him at the bottom at the end, but it doesn’t matter.”

“Kuroo, if Oikawa’s being quiet to you, then there’s concern to be had. You should try to talk to him.”

“He’s only being ‘quiet’ because I haven’t seen him that much this week! I’ve been hanging with Bokuto every day.”

“But you know Oikawa is the sulking type. If he’s mad at you, he’s not just gonna spell it out for you. You have to go prod him over it. His anger is sneaky, Kuroo.”

Kuroo made a passive gesture. “I’m not gonna get back into racing, okay? I know that’s the root of all this. It’ll just be a one-time thing, alright? Only this one race, I promise.”

Suga finally gave in. “Fine. You can ruin your relationship with Oikawa all you want, and hang around with sketchy snowboarders to your heart’s content. You’re an adult, and I can’t stop you.”

“Okay, mom.” Kuroo snorted.

Suga scowled in mock scolding. “Oh, watch, Kuroo. I can be your mom. That forehead scar! Explain!”

Kuroo raised an eyebrow and reached up to touch the bruise. “Like I said. I accidentally ran myself into a tree during the race.”

“Because of Bokuto? Didn’t you say it was because of Bokuto?”

“Eh, I guess you could say it was his fault. I was really just being dumb, though.” Kuroo had run out of hot cocoa and was now making obnoxious sucking noises with his straw.

“Did you get it checked out?”

“It’s fine. Bokuto kissed it.”

Suga’s eyes bulged. “The fuck?”

“What? It’s fine.” Kuroo turned up the volume on the sucking noise. “We’re bros. He totally fixed it. With like, kiss magic, or something.”

“You’re gay.”

Kuroo pointed a finger at him. “And taken.”

“But Bokuto kissed a gay guy without knowing that said guy was gay. That feels unfair.”

“Oh, please.” Kuroo moved the straw away from him mouth and scoffed, loudly. “It wasn’t a real kiss. He’s just a touchy guy, he didn’t mean anything.”

“But what if  _ you _ mean something!”

Kuroo set the drink down. “I don’t! I’m taken! Boyfriend! Oikawa Tooru!”

“Hardly. You two aren’t even talking, apparently. Everyone knows the basis of a healthy relationship is communication. And for the past week, all you’ve been doing is running off with your new snowboarder friend—”

“We do communicate, just not about the race, because it doesn’t need to be  _ said _ —”

“Communication!”

Kuroo groaned obnoxiously. “You’re killing me, Suga. You’re really doing it this time.” He made a stabbing motion to his chest and rolled his head back. “Dead.”

“Finally.” Suga brought his straw to his lips and imitated Kuroo’s sucking noise. “You’re a total ass sometimes.”

“You too.”

The two made eye contact across the table. “Bitch,” they said in unison.

 

~~~

 

“Oikawa, you can take my shift tomorrow evening, right?” Tendou was rolling back and forth on his feet with both hands on the counter, leaning over the edge to peer down at Oikawa. “You said so yesterday.”

Oikawa was in the process of deconstructing the footbed of a fractured boot brought to him by his manager to repair. Behind the counter, he’d appropriated several square meters of floor space to lay out the tools and make as much mess as needed. He held not only one, but two of the boot’s metal clips in his mouth.

“Oikawa? You told me you would, man.”  
Oikawa looked up at Tendou only to glare at him. He then removed the clips, and his mouth, liberated, formed a frown. “Are you sure I said that?”

Both of Tendou’s eyebrows went up. “Yeah.”

Oikawa resented the indignance in his coworker’s voice. “Ask me later.” He turned back to his work and put the metal back between his teeth again.

“Oikawa!” Tendou whined. He bounced up and down like a toddler, his eyes shut in frustration. “Please? I’ve got plans tomorrow night.”

“Shoulda considered that when picking your shifts, huh? Or, maybe, don’t make plans when you know you have work. I’m sick of taking your hours.”

Tendou pouted. His face was hidden from Oikawa’s view by the counter, but Oikawa was picturing it vividly. “You know, you’ve been acting so grumpy lately, Oikawa.”

“How so.” His monotone grumble did little but prove Tendou’s point.

“You’ve been recluse. You’ve done nothing for the past week but fix skis! I get it that it’s, like, your thing to be obsessive, but you’re being an ass too.” Tendou had one elbow on the counter and the other on his hip, staring nonchalantly. There was a pause where he seemed to expect Oikawa to speak. “You’re not even looking at me, asshole.”

“I’m actually doing work. Try it sometime.”

“That’s not even a clever line.”

“Doesn’t matter. Fuck off, Tendou.”

Tendou made a “yikes” face and glanced around the shop to make sure no one had heard. “You’re being mean.” He hissed. “I’ll tell Shimizu on you.”

Their manager, although devastatingly pretty, had the potential to be a fearsome tyrant. What Tendou didn’t understand was that she was only strict when Oikawa compelled her to be— or, sometimes, Makki, but on rarer occasions— and wouldn’t hear a word from Tendou without the license of the other two. Oikawa, with his ex-famous status at Niskeo, approachable nature, and dedication to his work, had completely taken the rental shop off Shimizu’s hands within the first few weeks of his work there. She was more than happy to let him have it; she spent more time on the mountain, at her apartment, or in the back room playing games on her phone because of it. To this same extent, Oikawa was satisfied even without the formal title of manager— Tendou wouldn’t respect him for it, and it kept him from having to deal with any of the higher-ups. He and Shimizu had their system totally worked out.

“Fuck off, Tendou,” he repeated it this time with confidence. His words were stifled by the shop’s bell ringing at the front.

“Suga!” Tendou exclaimed. He peeled away from the counter and abandoned Oikawa eagerly, launching himself at their regular and fellow Niskeo employee.

Oikawa craned his neck to poke his head over the counter. “Suga!” He called. “How’s it in the ice kingdom out there?”

Suga met him with a smile and dislodged himself from Tendou’s vice-like embrace. He held two to-go cups of coffee in a tray; he’d appeared just in time, like a snow-covered messiah coming to free Oikawa’s tortured soul. “It’s so cold!” He pulled his hat off his head and began peeling off his gloves as he approached; his hair stuck out in all directions and gave him a few more inches in height. “It’s fucking... freezing as shit out there. Could probably kill me if I’d stayed out any longer. It’s some real fuck shit.”

Oikawa smiled to himself and plopped back down behind the counter. When irritated, Suga was akin to him in his overuse of profanity, and it was a welcome trait. Suga handed him down one of the cups, Oikawa handled it greedily and wrapped both hands around it tight. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

Suga whispered over the counter, “I knew it was just you and Tendou this afternoon, so I figured some hot coffee and some company wouldn’t hurt.”

Oikawa figured he could pass out in relief. “God, you’re a lifesaver. Here, come on down.” He cleared away some of the tools on the floor so Suga would have a place to sit. “I don’t expect many customers today, so hiding back here should be fine.”

Suga was like a warm blanket, Oikawa thought. He came and sat cross-legged among the piles of ski parts and tools Oikawa had strewn about and somehow made it all seem organized and under control, just by being there. In this frazzled and sullen mood of his, Oikawa figured he could kiss him. “Thank you, Suga, again. I don’t know what I’d do without you right now.”

Suga offered a sympathetic smile. “I hope Tendou isn’t getting under your skin.” He took a long sip of coffee. “I know how unpleasant he can be. If you want me to come over tomorrow for some time to take him off your hands, I totally can. My manager is being super lenient with us this week.”

“No, it’s—” Oikawa shook his head. “It’s not really Tendou, it’s just work in general, and Kuroo, uh. Kuroo and I are going through a rough patch.”

Suga’s expression darkened. “Actually, I’ve got something to tell you about Kuroo, so I hope whatever it is isn’t too bad.”

“No, it’s really fine, I’m just being—”

“Actually, I think It might be related. Is this about Bokuto?”

Oikawa stilled, holding his gaze. “Yes, it is. How do you know about him?”

“Kuroo talks about him non-stop.”

Oikawa let out a breath. “Right.”

Suga nodded sympathetically. “What I’ve got to tell you isn’t a huge deal, I just want to make you aware. If you’d like me to hold off, then I will. I didn’t really come here to tell you, you just reminded me.”

“No, go ahead. I want to hear.” Oikawa leaned back on his palms and discarded his ski bindings.

“I talked with Kuroo yesterday. He seemed pretty happy, and that was good to see. I purposefully brought up Bokuto, because I had a few suspicions. A big one was that Kuroo lost the race. Are you aware of the race?”

“Yes, Kuroo told me.”

“I actually heard about it the afternoon it happened, but yesterday I played dumb for Kuroo so that he might give me more information. The two raced over some dispute, I don’t know what.”

“Bokuto pushed one of his kids into a ditch.”

“Oh, really?” Suga’s face contorted. “That’s actually kind of awful. I thought it was something petty.”

“I’m pretty sure it was. It sounded to me that Kuroo was just upset with the guy smack-talking him after it happened, not so much the pushing part.”

Suga sipped his coffee slowly. “In which case I’m not surprised.” He cleared his throat. “Anyways, Kuroo had talked to me about Bokuto a lot before the race went down, and he seemed awfully set on finding the guy, to the point of obsession. That was another suspicion--Kuroo was overeager to find him, and something was up with that. I heard that some violence had gone down at the race itself, and I wanted to know if Kuroo was… well, alright. Since before it all happened Kuroo was really going after Bokuto, I figured his heart would’ve been crushed if things got ugly. Turns out he only got thwacked with a tree in the forehead—”

“Have you met Bokuto?” Oikawa cut off Suga’s train of thought.

Suga shook his head. “No.”

“Okay.” Oikawa’s eyes were wavering. “Just asking. Go on, sorry.”

“Anyways, at the race Bokuto apparently pushed him into a tree, and Kuroo got hit with a branch. It didn’t sound good when he told me about it, but Kuroo seemed totally fine with—”

“Do you know what Bokuto looks like?”

Suga looked up in surprise. “What? Kind of. Why?”

Oikawa made a passive gesture. “Sorry, just wondering.”

“Uh, he wears a yellow and black coat.”

“I know that much.”

“He’s shorter than Kuroo, but he’s bulkier. Kuroo once described his hair to me as ‘permanent helmet hair,’ though I doubt he would anymore.”

Oikawa had his nails dug into his palms. “Weird.”

“What?” Suga leaned in, eyebrows knitted together in concern. “Have you seen him around or something?”

“No, I just... I think, maybe, yes.” Oikawa exhaled long; Suga wanted to reach out and comfort him, but refrained.

“Where?”

“At the race. I was there, at the end.”

Suga jerked back in surprise. Really? Why didn’t you say so?”

Oikawa met his gaze again. “Because of what I saw.”

Suga wanted to ask what, but couldn’t get past the injured look in Oikawa’s eyes. “Jeez, man.”

Oikawa let out a hollow laugh. “It was some fuck shit.”

“Some fuck shit?”

“Real fuck shit.” Oikawa was shaking his head.

“You… You, uh, alright with telling me? I’m here to help. Did Bokuto hurt him or something?” Suga leaned forward with this elbows on his knees; beneath the counter among cardboard boxes and discarded coupons he felt adequately guarded.

Oikawa sat cross-legged a few inches away, his hands shoved in his lap and his eyes in the same direction. “I dunno, Suga. I think I might be overreacting.”

It was an unsettling sight to see Oikawa so insecure. “If whatever it is really hurt you, then you’re not overreacting.”

Oikawa flashed a grateful grimace, and began picking at his nails. “I think I saw Bokuto and Kuroo kissing.”

Suga, who still had a few sips of espresso in his mouth, did his very best to prevent himself from spitting it out. He dribbled a little, and quickly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand so he could shout,  _ “What?” _

“Okay, well, not real kissing. Like, Bokuto kissed Kuroo’s forehead, and then they hugged, and there might have been some cheek action, and well—” Oikawa’s voice cracked, he soon buried his face in his hands. “I don’t know! It was far away and dark and I could only see their silhouettes, and god, I don’t know if they actually—”

Suga quickly reached out and gripped a hand on Oikawa’s shoulder. “It’s okay, shh,” he whispered, both trying to comfort Oikawa and get him to quiet down; Tendou was bound to hear at this volume, even from the back room. “It’s alright. Can you explain to me what you saw? From the beginning?”

Oikawa nodded into the back of his hand, sniffling loudly. His eyes were reddened and his cheeks starting to get wet; Suga winced instinctively. “I showed up maybe a half hour before the race, at the bottom of the trail, it was— it was the sunbowl, and it was dark, it was like seven o’clock—” He paused to sniffle again. “I heard about the race from Ukai, who’s Kuroo’s manager, and oh, I don’t know why I went! Kuroo didn’t talk to me at all the day it happened, he was on the mountain all day, and since he didn’t tell me about it  I figured he didn’t want me there… I just got mad, you know? I got mad that he didn’t tell me, so I went.”

Suga nodded. “That’s understandable.”

“And oh, I didn’t even want him to race in the first place! I didn’t think he’d want to race either— not after what happened to us. He and Ukai and I, we were drunk and we all talked about it, Ukai suggested it, and Kuroo just went with it! He just went with the idea, and completely disregarded what I had to say. He was so focused on getting back at Bokuto, or whatever he wanted to do with him, that he overlooked what I had to say about it— god, I’m so stupid! I shouldn’t have gone to the fucking race!

“Oikawa, it’s not your fault that Kuroo disregarded you. That was just him being awful.”

“I know it’s not my fault for that, I’m saying… I’m saying I shouldn’t have gone to that race. I know it was just going to make me hurt, even just seeing him competing again, and I guess I could have lived with that by itself, if not for the kissing part! It would have been bad enough just to see him race, but on top of everything, he and Bokuto… Fuck.”

Suga treaded cautiously. “Are you sure that you saw them kissing?”

“I left once I saw Bokuto kiss his forehead. Or, actually, after Kuroo hugged him. so who knows what actually went down once I was gone. It was far away, but they were under one of the lights.”

“Wasn’t there a crowd around?”

“There were people at the bottom of the trail, yeah, they were kind of at the edge.”

“Then, Oikawa, they couldn’t have really been kissing. Most of Kuroo’s coworkers know that he’s in a relationship with someone else, and we have no evidence that Bokuto is attracted to men. Maybe Bokuto’s just a touchy guy. You know Kuroo would go along with that.”

Oikawa’s expression tightened. “There’s still no excuse, Suga.” Suga watched as his hands clenched together. “There’s no explanation for it. If he had even talked to me about it at all, about Bokuto, about the race, at all, then I would be okay with it. But he’s hiding from me. He’s hiding.”

“I know. It sucks. I’ve been trying to get more out of him for you, and there’s this one thing—”

Oikawa wasn’t listening. “I should dump him, Suga.”

Suga swallowed. “I’d wait, on that front. I’d at least try and talk to him first. You two haven’t been communicating well, have you? Kuroo said that he hasn’t really talked to you that much.”

Oikawa’s eyes flashed with anger. “And is he sorry about that?”

Suga startled on reflex. “About what? The not talking to you?”

“Yeah. Is he sorry?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say so. I think he’s been caught up in other things.”

“And ignoring me in the process. And hiding.”

“I know, Oikawa, and that totally sucks. That’s exactly why you have to talk to him. But there’s something else you should know.”

Oikawa deflated further into himself, his anger having dissipated. “Go ahead. There’s little else to make things worse.”

Suga winced at that comment. Seeing Oikawa so defeated had him feeling defeated himself: Oikawa was often a beacon of confidence, his outward persona something to strive for, his composure something to attain. He could control a room with his looks and could play his intelligence up or down to suit him at any given moment; he’d enchanted Kuroo on contact and Suga figured that he wasn’t too far behind. This ordinarily god-like persona in his eyes being torn down like this by a neglectful boyfriend was a crushing thing to see. “It’s that Kuroo and Bokuto have been hanging out all week.” Suga paused. “I know it must be clear to you that they’ve reached some level of closeness, based on the encounter that you witnessed at the race, but when I asked Kuroo for an explanation as to why he hasn’t talked to you all week, he said it’s because he’s been spending time with Bokuto every day. Whether on the mountain, or in the village at night, I don’t know, but that’s where Kuroo’s been. With Bokuto.” Suga hated,  _ detested _ having to be the one to deliver this news. Watching Oikawa’s expression darken even further at his own words tore him apart. “I’m sorry, Oikawa.”

Oikawa was reinvigorated with a moment of indignance. “Are they  _ dating? _ ”

“I don’t— I don’t know.”

Despite his efforts to maintain his composure, Oikawa was wiping tears from his eyes. “It’s fine. It’s nothing I couldn’t have assumed already. Hanging out all week, fuck. No wonder Kuroo hasn’t texted me, called me, or anything. I’m… I’m glad that you told me. It’ll make the decision to dump him that much easier in the long run, won’t it?”

“Oikawa,” Suga begged, “please at least talk to him first. At least hear him out. Or find Bokuto, and talk to Bokuto. Or have me talk to Bokuto for you, or either of them. Or both at once. I’ll do anything to help you repair this, just please don’t make any decision like that without giving him a chance. Maybe there’s some explanation.”

Oikawa held Suga’s gaze for a long time. “I know that you’re right,” he whispered, “but I can’t even begin to tell you how much this hurts.”

“And I can’t tell you how much it hurts me to see you like this.”

Oikawa looked to the ground, went silent for a moment, and then spontaneously pulled Suga into a hug. “Thank you,” he whispered, “Without you, I think I’d probably have died in this mess.”

Suga leaned in until he could get his chin around Oikawa’s shoulder. “I’m always going to be here to help, I promise. Anything I can do to make this easier for you, I will.”

Oikawa was shaking.

“I am always going to be here.” He heard a muffled sob, and felt wetness staining his shirt where Oikawa’s head lay. “It’ll be alright.”

The bell attached to the shop’s door rang.

Oikawa screamed, “FUCK!”

“Shit, Oikawa, shut up—” Suga bashed his head on the lip of the counter in an attempt to stand up. He’d set his coffee down when Oikawa hugged him, and it now lay toppled over next to a box of ski boot linings, spilled onto the carpet. “Fuck,” he hissed, and motioned for Oikawa to stay down. The man looked like a lost toddler. Suga put on his best retail-employee smile, turned around to position himself behind the counter, and prayed that whoever had just entered wouldn’t notice that he was dressed in a work uniform from a different store.  _ Customers on a day like today, really? And they had to come now? _ He thought. He felt Oikawa clutch at his leg.

The man who had just entered wore a black and yellow coat. He was tall, not taller than Kuroo or Oikawa, but more muscularly built. His hair, most of which was dyed an odd shade of grey, stuck up off his head in all directions. His mask was pulled down and his goggles hung around his neck, both caked with snow. Suga couldn’t see his feet, but judging by his gait he had on a pair of ski boots. He wore a mystified expression and looked around at the merchandise cluelessly.

Suga wanted to scream “FUCK!”

Instead, he retained his well-practiced retail-employee smile, and ducked below the counter to politely inform Oikawa that the person who had just entered the store was Bokuto.

 

~~~

 

Oikawa now understood why Kuroo had chosen to surrender every moment of his spare time to this man. The guilt that riddled him put up little fight next to the fuzzy, post-sex haze of contentedness that clouded his mind.

“I can’t believe we fucked,” he whispered, more to himself than to Bokuto. There was a stupid grin on his face. “I cannot believe that we fucked.”

“I can.” And tugging his head down to bring them closer together, Bokuto kissed him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're updating early because i'm a maniac who likes to test the boundaries of what's possible when studying for 8 classes and practicing art every night on TOP of other writing projects. this one just keeps chugging along! i'm working on chapter 9 as we speak--i anticipate 10/11 chapters, over 40k, we're at 33k right now >;0
> 
> i left you guys with a pretty wild cliffhanger last time, hopefully this chapter will clear things up hmm! and we're introducing a new character how fun :V
> 
> nd again if u wanna beta for me send me an ask on tunglr m url is birdcat thnxz
> 
> enjoy! i'll be dishing out another update on tuesday!

“Fuck, Suga, what?” Oikawa spat. He was crouched pitifully among the cardboard boxes piled together beneath the counter and clung to Suga’s leg like a vice. “Bokuto?” His eyes threatened to bulge out of his head.

Suga had already reappeared above the counter, ignoring him, and only jostled his leg slightly to quiet Oikawa down. He hunted around best he could for something to write on, not only to occupy him while Bokuto milled about the store but to deliver messages to Oikawa. “Shut up,” he hissed, when Oikawa yanked on his pant leg to grab his attention.

“But Bokuto!” Oikawa hissed back. “Bokuto! How do you know? Is it really Bokuto?” His voice was full of interest.

Suga snapped his head over to confirm that Bokuto was turned away behind a rack of coats, and then slunk beneath the counter once more. “He fits the description perfectly. Black and yellow jacket. Totally built. Stupid hair. Vacant expression. Fuck me if it’s anybody else.” He was about to stand back up, but Oikawa kept him down with a hand to the top of the head and instead stood up himself.

“What are you doing?” Suga grappled at Oikawa’s hand. “Oikawa, what? Weren’t you just crying everywhere? Don’t you hate this guy?”

Oikawa kept his gaze up. His voice was calm. “Shut up, let me talk to him. You should probably go.”

Suga was reeling. “What? Why do you wanna talk to him?” He tugged on Oikawa’s pant leg. “You were just crying, Oikawa, you’re pissed off at this guy! He was kissing Kuroo—”

Oikawa silenced him by jerking his leg violently. “You should  _ go. _ ”

Suga, victim to Oikawa’s overbearing command and admittedly meek in nature, scurried beneath the counter until he could make a dive for the door leading to the back room. He had countless questions for his friend, and an decent scolding in store, but the firmness and desperation with which Oikawa asked him to leave clued him in to the fact that there was something else going on here— and Suga was wise enough not to get in the way when Oikawa Tooru was performing shenanigans.

Behind the counter, Oikawa let out a long breath. “Bokuto,” he called across the store at the unsuspecting customer as if addressing an old friend. “What’s brought you here, huh?”

Bokuto had been completely oblivious to the fact that anyone else was in the store. “Oikawa?” He called over a rack of coats. “Wait, shit, Oikawa?” He parted two of the coats to stick his head through; his hair was as unkempt as ever and his eyebrows, somehow, had snow in them. “You work here? I didn’t know anyone else was even in here, oh my gosh. How’s it going?” He hobbled over to the counter and gave Oikawa a fist-bump. “I had no idea you worked here.”

Oikawa smiled and shrugged bitterly. “Yeah, well, I do. It’s the life. Repairing skis. Selling shit.”

Bokuto granted him a sympathetic pout. “I figured you worked somewhere in the village, most regulars do. And, you know, it’s not like you’re missing anything on the mountain today. Have you heard about the weather up top right now? It’s -20C here, sure, but with the wind at the summit, people are getting actual frostbite.” He leaned an elbow on the counter and laughed. “I was smart enough to get out before my fingers started falling off. How goes it down here? Probably no frostbite, huh?” He wore a grin proudly.

Oikawa, who had anticipated this encounter to be an awkward one, was relieved to find that Bokuto’s sheer friendliness could still carry a conversation on its own. When Bokuto was in a good mood, and perhaps more importantly  _ calm _ , he was unknowingly capable of being wickedly charming towards anyone he talked to. The dumb hair, excessive hand motions, and the genuine, almost kid-like enthusiasm ingrained in his nature was, in Oikawa’s mind, an incredible set of tools that Bokuto used without even knowing he was using them.

Oikawa did not, however, find Bokuto magnetizing enough to instantly forgive him for the things he witnessed the night of the race. He braced himself for the onslaught of endearing grins and quirked eyebrows to come, and pressed on. “No, we haven’t had a case of missing thumbs in quite a while. Actually, “ he held up his own thumb, “I’d say that most wounds here are caused by having to adjust bindings with dull screwdrivers.”

“And business is good?”

Oikawa shrugged. “Not today, for sure, but in general, yeah. Why?”

Bokuto winced dramatically. “Well, I’ve got a case of a broken ski.”

Both of Oikawa’s eyebrows shot up. “Yikes. Well, I was wondering why you’d come. How did you break it? And where is—”

“Here.” Bokuto placed an alarmingly small ski on the counter, which he’d apparently been concealing, and Oikawa instantly understood that Bokuto was not the one who had snapped it. It was bent in the middle just in front of the binding, the outer layer torn and the front screws on the binding pulled loose. It, not entirely unlike Bokuto’s frosty eyebrows, dripped half-melted snow onto the counter. It had a rental tag in size 120 and a label indicating that it was from Hirafu village.

“Oh, well, this should be easy.” Oikawa took the ski into his hands laughed. “This is a rental from our shop, Bokuto, we can get this replaced in thirty seconds.”

Bokuto laughed with him. “Really? Oh, man, that’s cool. Is there a fee for it or something?”

Oikawa paused on his way to the desk drawer and held up a peace sign. “We’ve got a no-charge return policy for all merchandise damaged on-site.” He dug a out a stack of labels and threw them onto the counter before popping back up. “You could technically walk out, break your rentals in half, and then walk back in and get them replaced for free. Why you would do that, I don’t know, but it’s our policy.”

“Oh, man, that’s actually really cool. That makes me feel better— this is one of Kuroo’s kid’s skis, he snapped it running into a snowbank. I didn’t wanna make Kuroo or myself pay for it, honestly, so this is great.”

Heat instantly flared up in Oikawa’s neck at the mention of Kuroo; he continued to paste the “REPAIRS” label onto the ski and nod along. “You’ve been hanging out with Kuroo, huh?” He forced his voice steady.

Bokuto smiled and scratched back of his neck. “Yeah, a little. He had his kids today for like three hours and invited me to come along again, and I figured why not? I think it was— I think it was Kenma that broke this one. Little kid with his PSP. I almost ran into him once he fell, he was totally jammed up into a snowbank with a busted ski and didn’t care, just kept playing his video games.”

“Admirable.” Oikawa was avoiding making eye contact with Bokuto by ducking down again and pretending to need something from beneath the counter. In reality, he was catching his breath— the thought of Kuroo inviting Bokuto to go up on the mountain with him and his kids made Oikawa want to throw up.  _ He’s replacing you. _

“Yeah, kinda.” Bokuto laughed. “I guess he’s kind of brave in a weird way. All of Kuroo’s kids, actually, you just gotta love them. Like a gang of little skiers.”

Oikawa hadn’t ever met any of them. “Oh, they’re a hoot,” he said. “It’s a wonder Kuroo keeps track of them all.” He re-emerged with a roll of duct tape in his hands, not planning on using it for anything.

Bokuto threw his head back in a laugh this time. “I know, right? But I really think it’s Tsukki doing all the work for him. That skinny blonde one? I think he’s my favorite. Sure knows how to push Kuroo’s buttons. Does all the work for me.”

“He probably does it better than we can.”

“Sure does. Kuroo complains to me about him the most, I think. Him, and the short redhead and his tall buddy. Man, he can go off for hours on his kids. We’ll go hang out at a terrain park or get a drink together somewhere and he’ll talk to me about his kids forever. He used to just tell me stories about them, but now he’s trying to get me more involved.” He laughed. “Like a role model or something. Asks me to come along for a few runs, and I end up spending hours with them.” Bokuto’s expression was distant. “Man, I love that guy.”

If one were to simply look at Bokuto, or listen to Bokuto, one would not assume him intelligent. Oikawa, knew, however, through the numbness in his gut and the searing heat along his neck that Bokuto was extraordinarily brilliant. Oikawa had never given Bokuto any information about his relationship with Kuroo.

In fact, the only inferences Bokuto could have made about their relationship were those based off the fact that Oikawa was the one who had told Bokuto how to beat Kuroo in the race.

And so now, as Bokuto stared across the counter at him with jacket collar popped up and a glint in his eye, Oikawa knew the provocation was intentional. Oikawa did not know why Bokuto was calculatedly rubbing salt in his Kuroo-related wounds— it didn’t matter, he realized, because the burn was consuming him. He stood, now, facing away from him, flipping through a rack of kids’ rental skis and wishing away the tears in his eyes lest the other man see.  _ Kuroo is replacing you. _

He froze, head ducked, fingers gripped around a ski, when Bokuto spoke again.

“You know, I’ve actually been trying to teach Yamaguchi to land some of the smaller jumps. Little strawberry-hair kid?”

_ Kuroo is replacing you with someone better. _

“He’s the shyest of the bunch, I think, and they all fly off the big ones no problem, so I’m trying to encourage him to at least try the smaller ones. Like, the ones at the top of the west bowl that are like two feet. You know those, right?”

No, Oikawa didn’t know: the brace he wore pinched around his right knee forever barred him from clipping skis to his feet. 

“Yeah, I know those.”

Bokuto laughed and went on. “Well, he did one the other day, and Kuroo got it on video. We’ve been showing it to all his coworkers and everything, and the kid is so embarrassed, but I think the encouragement is helping him, you know?” He secretly likes the attention.” Bokuto continued laughing. “Man, Kuroo and I have been trying so hard to get him to do it.”

Bokuto’s story served no other purpose than to evoke a response in Oikawa, and Oikawa understood it. “I’m glad,” he said.

“I know, right? I ran into that kid, once. I think you know that story, yeah? Unless Kuroo didn’t tell you.” Another laugh. Bokuto was staring at the back of Oikawa’s neck.

Oikawa squeezed his eyes shut. _ Kuroo and his kids. Kuroo and other people. Kuroo and Bokuto and skiing together and racing and ski school and competitions and going out on the mountain at night— What is Bokuto getting out of provoking me? _

Oikawa looked down at the tiny ski in his hands, and at the dirty carpet of the rental shop floor where it met the wall. His eyes wandered to Suga’s spilled coffee, the cardboard boxes beneath the counter, the way the fabric of his jeans was bunched around his right knee; he was never going to get out of here. Kuroo was the one who put him here.

His head was ducked, still, and Bokuto was watching with a smile on his face. “Actually—”

“You know what?” Oikawa turned around and fixed his gaze on him. Something within him had snapped. “If I were to suggest something just now, all I ask that you don’t freak out right away.”

Bokuto blinked several times; whatever control he’d had on the situation was whisked away by Oikawa, the force in his voice, and his unabashedly reddened eyes. Oikawa’s ordinarily rock-solid composure had dissolved without his knowing. “Yeah?”

Oikawa shut his eyes and sucked a breath in, and willed himself to feel nothing but his anger towards Kuroo. “Do you wanna have sex with me?”

 

~~~

 

Oikawa now understood why Kuroo had chosen to surrender every moment of his spare time to this man. The guilt that riddled him put up little fight next to the fuzzy, post-sex haze of contentedness that clouded his mind.

“I can’t believe we fucked,” he whispered, more to himself than to Bokuto. There was a stupid grin on his face. “I cannot believe that we fucked.”

“I can.” And tugging his head down to bring them closer together, Bokuto kissed him.

 

~~~

 

Oikawa woke up before Bokuto did. He was surprised at how well they had cleaned up the night before— the sheets were immaculate and he slid out of bed without encountering any mess. Their clothes, however, were scattered across the carpet and took some sifting through until Oikawa found his boxers.

He entered the bathroom to brush his teeth and discovered his knee brace laying on the bathroom floor. He looked down in a panic at his naked leg, and soon yanked the brace back up and over it with wince. “Fuck,” he whispered. They must have had sex in the shower: it would explain the clean bed and the discarded brace. He peeked back into the adjacent bedroom, where Bokuto still slept. He slept like a little kid, on his back with an arm bent on either side; he snored only quietly.

Oikawa lived, for four months out of the year, in an apartment at Niskeo’s base village. The apartment buildings housed the majority of full-time village and mountain employees. Some were rented out to families and tourists for weekend trips, others to visiting school groups, but the buildings were cramped enough and close enough that most employees lived in incredibly close quarters with one another. Some chose to room together— there were a few apartments that had turned into veritable frat houses, which were a curse to live next to— but Oikawa and Kuroo had opted to each get their own and simply sleep over at each other’s every other night, just to have more space collectively.

Kuroo hadn’t been over in almost two weeks, so Oikawa was confident that his boyfriend wasn’t going to walk in on Bokuto sleeping naked in his bed.

Bokuto soon emerged, wandered into the bathroom with bleary eyes, and wrapped his arms around Oikawa’s waist as he tried to brush his teeth.

“You’re wearing my underwear,” he whispered in Oikawa’s ear.

Oikawa shut off his toothbrush and looked down, foam dripping onto his chin. “Really?” His voice was garbled. He didn’t protest to Bokuto’s affections, clearly all reservations in intimacy had been demolished entirely last night, and Bokuto happened to be larger and softer than Kuroo, endowing him with better hugging abilities; Oikawa relished in it. He, for now, had been consistently and pleasantly surprised with his spite-fueled hookup.

“Mhm. Mine are the red ones.” Bokuto peered at himself in the mirror and left Oikawa to figure out the underwear situation. “Well, look at us. Aren’t we a just cute mess on this lovely morning?” He pressed a kiss to Oikawa’s ear.

Oikawa spat in the sink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hmph. You actually look nice with your hair down.” He shuffled around so that he was facing Bokuto and ruffled his hair. “You should wear it this way more. Could really catch on with the ladies.”

“Nuh-uh.” Bokuto shut Oikawa up by sealing their lips together. Oikawa could feel as he slid a hand beneath the waistband of his boxers. “You wouldn’t want that.”

“You’re right.” Oikawa relaxed, letting Bokuto lean him in over the counter, until a sharp pain surfaced in his knee and made him jerk forward. “Shit,” he whispered. He’d kneed Bokuto in the thigh.

Bokuto backed off instantly, leaving only his hands hovering at Oikawa’s sides. “You alright?” He followed Oikawa’s gaze down to his legs. “Your knee?”

Oikawa nodded, having bit down on the back of his hand. “I took the brace off last night when we were in the shower, and I need to sleep with it on, or else I risk dislocating it in my sleep. I found it this morning on the bathroom floor.”

“Well shit,” Bokuto said, kneeling down. He touched Oikawa’s thigh gingerly. “Is it alright? How’d you— I never realized you had a bad knee.”

Oikawa nodded again, retracting his leg on instinct. “Sorry,” he said. “Sleeping without the brace is just no good for it. I don’t think I hurt it too bad last night, or it would be aching like a bitch, but it’ll bug me for the next few days if I mess with it at all.” His gut twisted at his own words. “I have patellar instability. An old biking accident, it’s not too bad at this point,” he lied.

Bokuto looked up and nodded sympathetically, before rising to his feet and capturing Oikawa in another kiss, more delicately this time. He cupped Oikawa’s jaw with his hand. “We’ll just be gentle on it, huh?”

Oikawa nodded, and leaned forward until Bokuto took most of his weight. “Carry me back to bed,” he whined. “I hurt.”

“Am I gonna end up spoiling you?” Bokuto plucked him off the ground in both arms and brought him back into the bedroom with ease. “Is that what’s happening here, huh?”

Oikawa wound his arms around Bokuto’s neck and hummed. “You know, I could get used to it.”

 

~~~

Kuroo slept on his stomach, with his face pressed into a pillow and his arms folding it up around his head on either side. Sugawara hypothesized two different things: one, that the drool spots on Kuroo’s pillows must be heinous, and two, that Kuroo must somehow respirate through his skin like an amphibian, because quite literally all of his breathing options were cut off in this position.

Suga disregarded this, however, in the act of waking Kuroo up; he opted to abduct one of Kuroo’s many unused pillows and viciously beat the man with it until he woke.

Kuroo stirred after ten seconds. “What? Jesus fuck, what?” He spat. His face emerged with hair plastered to it. “Suga? What the fuck?”

Suga stood a meter off with his arms folded. “Get up, hoe. Momma’s got news.”

“Oh, god, ew. I hate it when you call yourself that, oh my god.” Kuroo kicked his blankets off of him, and blearily swiped his bangs out of his eyes. “I don’t know if I’m capable of processing information right now, but what you got?”

Suga tapped his foot. “Sit up.”

Kuroo scoffed, and assumed a mildly-upright position. “C’mon. Hit me.”

Suga held out a poster. It was letter-sized, damp in some spots, and clearly ripped off of a wall, as the upper half was partly detached from the lower.

Kuroo was defeated. “Suga, I can’t read that from here. I’m half-blind and still asleep.”

Suga came closer and pressed the paper into Kuroo’s hands. “Read it.”

Kuroo squinted down at it for a second, then passed it back to Suga. “Read it to me.”

Suga groaned and tipped his head back. “Kuroo, it’s a promotional poster for a race. It’s a week off.”

“And?” Kuroo asked. He tossed his blankets off him. “I’m not getting back into racing, remember? Do you want me to get back into racing?”

“Kuroo, it’s not about the actual—”

“I don’t wanna get back into racing. Why are you showing me this?” He leaned back on his elbows and kicked at the paper through the blanket still hooked around his foot. “Nuh-uh, Sugawara. Don’t tempt me.”

Suga was pensive; he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Kuroo, this means Ushijima.”

Kuroo stopped kicking, and his legs fell to the bed. “What?”

“This race is going to be large, Kuroo, and Ushijima is coming.”

“No.” Kuroo pushed himself upright and held out his hands defensively. “Nope. Not happening. I’m not going. Absolutely no way on this god-forsaken earth would I  _ ever, _ of my own volition, attend such a  _ repugnant _ —”

“Kuroo.” Suga held out the paper again. “Listen. I’m just going to leave it here, okay? Read the details for yourself if you want, later. But I talked to Keishin the moment I caught sight of this, and he confirmed for me that Ushijima is coming, along with a lot of the old regulars. He’s supposed to be here today, and he’s gonna be preparing on the mountain all week. That’s what I was told. I just want you to be aware of that, so when you and your kids inevitably spot him somewhere up there, you don’t get a heart attack, alright? This isn’t about the race, for me, at least, I just wanted to let you know so you don’t, y’know, die.”

Kuroo stared up at Suga, sudden gratefulness taking hold of him. “Alright, then.” He let out a breath and picked up the paper. “That’s good stuff to know, actually. He’s, uh— He’s gonna be here, I guess. Thank you, Suga.”

He pursed his lips. “Don’t doubt momma’s motives.”

“God, I’m going to fucking chase you out—” Kuroo began to wiggle himself out of bed. “Wait, how did you even get in here?”

“Emergency key.” Suga produced a keychain and jingled it around.

Kuroo tried to swipe for it, but got kneed in the chest by a grinning Suga. “Nuh-uh. You’re the one who gave it to me, and I’ll take a wild guess and say that this won’t be the last intervention I’m making on your behalf.”

Kuroo glanced at the torn poster on his nightstand and swallowed. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY i'm a day late but this week is Assignment Hell and I don't want to get ahead of myself in my updates so we'll be getting another one on wednesday
> 
> enjoy the suga/bokuto interaction and the ~foreshadowing this chapter! :L it's a long one like 4.2k lmfao

Bokuto figured that he was redeeming himself exceptionally in Niseko’s public eye; he who had been once considered a serious public safety hazard, infamous to mountain regulars and employees alike, royal-pain-in-the-ass-number-one, was now leading a train of preschoolers down one of the mountain’s kiddie trails by a colorful rope.

“I am a genius,” he said, “a child-taming prodigy. Look at this.”

Kuroo looked up from where he was coercing Kenma to put his skis back on and grinned. “You know what? I feel like the matching outfits really make it for me.”

“I know! Look at this!” Bokuto gestured to his line of children in delight. “My pupils.”

They all had bright orange matching reflective vests on, labeled with “SKI SCHOOL” on the back; each clung to the rope by a rubber rung, shuffled forward on tiny skis, and showed not even the vaguest signs of interest. One of them stuck their tongue out at Bokuto.

“I am a pioneer of child-rearing.”

“Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you, Bokuto.” Kuroo slid up beside him with Kenma in tow. Kuroo, a forever saintly being, had agreed to take up Yaku’s two-hour friday preschool shift in exchange for two nights of free drinks. The agreement was a frequent one, as Yaku habitually took entire weekends off to visit his relatives in Tokyo, and Kuroo was an unabashed seeker of free alcohol. Typically, it was detrimental agreement to Kuroo’s reputation, as he always has his kids on top of Yaku’s kids, and he was a long-time sufferer of chronic child loss.

This time, however, with Bokuto’s knightly presence and half of his own kids already having run off on their own, Kuroo felt more comfortable going in.

“I heard there’s gonna be a race,” Bokuto said. He was clearly avoiding having to go back up the T-pull to the top of the trail, and instead chose to slow down his line of children to a sluggish pace. “Here, like, a weird one too. One of those fancy ones that we did. Some kids were talking about it and they showed me an ad.”

“Like, Niskeo-style?” Kuroo asked, laughing. “Yeah, there’s gonna be one of the multi-lap ones. I dunno if I’m gonna do it. My friends don’t want me to do it.”

“Multi-lap?” Bokuto stopped his children altogether; none seemed to protest.

Kenma ran into Kuroo from the back, eyes glued to a DS. Kuroo reached around and steadied him. “It’s where you go down the mountain four times. Or sometimes six. You all start on the top, and then have to get on a ski lift to get back up for each lap. They use the gondola, sometimes, but people I always having to put my skis back on.”

Bokuto was playing with his jacket zipper, perplexed. “Huh, so it’s gonna be like that? I didn’t really look at the ad. Is it timed?”

“No, it’s another kind of whoever-finishes-first race. It gets really tiring by the end, actually. Always hated them a little. Always had to stare powerlessly at the people in front of you on the chairlift.”

“Yeah, that sounds shitty.” Bokuto grinned. “Is there, like, a set trail you have to follow? Or are you just trying to get down the fastest, and whoever knows the fastest trails has the advantage?”

Kuroo laughed again. “No, ‘cause the fastest route is through the green-circles running down the front of the mountain, and a bunch of guys just flat-out bombing through the easy stuff doesn’t make for a very interesting race. The heaviest guys would always win, right? It would change sometimes, but the usual route was through Superstition and Misoshiru.”

“With moguls on them?”

“Fresh ones.”

“That’s fucking brutal, man. I dunno if I’m up for that.” Bokuto’s grin belied him.

Kuroo nodded. “The mountain used to run these as a spectator sport, and so they’d really put us through the worst they could. And when everyone was on the chairlift something else was always happening, you know? Like, they’d have snowboarders going through the terrain park and showing off, or a DJ or something dumb. The mountain would throw parties at the base lodge and people would show up literally just to watch the race. There were betting pools, too, though I’m pretty sure a lot of it was illegal. Some kids got actual sponsors, some were just looking to get their name out ‘cause they were trying to make the Olympics. It was this totally weird subculture here.”

Bokuto was wide-eyed. “Bro, was all this, like, televised or something?”

Kuroo grinned. “Sometimes. I got on the television once or twice. These weren’t my specialty, though, I was the champion of the one-off races.”

“Like where I beat you?”

Kuroo knocked him in the shoulder. “Yeah, man. I’m rusty as shit, though. I dunno where the community’s gone. It used to be a big deal here, you know? I was one of the better skiers, we all had stupid nicknames, it was like this weird club. Some of us really hated each other, actually. I guess this race is supposed to be a revival or something, ‘cause I heard one of the old winners is coming back.”

“You’re leaving me hanging, dude, who?”

“His name’s Ushijima Wakatoshi. Ushiwaka for short. He was called “The Eagle,” and it was the dumbest shit ever. Good skier, though, but violent.”

“Did people get beat up and shit? It does sound like it could get messy.”

Kuroo deadpanned and gestured to the fading bruise on his forehead. “Take a guess. You even did it yourself. It would get really rough, bloody, even— Ushiwaka was a frequent culprit. Dude’s like 190 cm, probably 90 kg, didn’t know his own strength. I don’t think he ever really went after people on purpose, but he’s shoved me and cut me off before, and it’s fucking scary. He’s totally blunt and uptight and probably dumb as shit. I guess he’s learned how to leverage the stick up his ass, though, ‘cause he could beat all of us.”

Bokuto snorted. “I’d love to meet the guy. I’d love to enter this thing, actually.”

Kuroo waved his hand dismissively. “I’m not gonna, but I was told that Waka’s here already. To prepare for the race, or something. He probably hasn’t seen these trails in a couple years. He wears a purple jacket, last I ever saw him, so keep an eye out. I’m pretty sure he’s been to the Olympic trials before, so you might actually see him with the Japanese flag.”

“Dude, that’s fucking cool. And he still comes here?”

“To race, I guess. A few of the old crew have been to the trials. It was a kind of regular thing. My friend Sugawara knows a lot about Ushiwaka, you should go ask him. They were on rival ski teams in high school, and Sugawara interacted with him a lot.”

Bokuto had caught a glimpse of a man that Oikawa called “Suga” at the rental shop; he now perked up. “Who’s Sugawara? Have I met him?”

Kuroo had an arm around Kenma’s midriff, huddling the boy between his skis so that he couldn’t slide away in his DS-induced trance. “I doubt it. He works at the Hirafu Starbucks, his given name is Koushi. Mondays and Thursdays he’s not on shift but he usually hangs around, you could probably just go in and ask for him. If you need to know anything about Ushiwaka, he can tell you. And trust me, you’re gonna need to know about Waka if you’re entering this race.”

One of Bokuto’s preschoolers was running his head into Bokuto’s leg. “I dunno if I’m gonna enter or not,” he said. He steadied the toddler with a hand. “But I’ll probably go and ask anyways.”

Bokuto, in truth, was simply glad to have stumbled upon another source of information on Kuroo and Oikawa. He said, “it sounds like an interesting prospect, you know?”

“Getting into racing here? Yeah, it was something,” Kuroo said. He squeezed Kenma by the shoulders. “But I don’t plan on ever going back.”

 

~~~

 

“I’m here for Sugawara Koushi?” Bokuto had taken a gamble and waited in the slow-paced Starbucks line for fifteen minutes just to ask the guy at the register if this potentially absent guy was around. Coffee shops were always dangerous places for him: caffiene set him off even in small doses and the smell of coffee was endlessly alluring. Going in, he’d promised himself he wouldn’t buy anything, but the smoked butterscotch mocha listed on the menu above looked better and better the longer he stared at it.

The guy at the register appeared half-asleep. His chin rested on his palm and he had a pen in his mouth; it bobbed up and down as he spoke. Bokuto felt like he could relate. “You’d like one… Wait, a Suga?” His eyes went from completely closed to half-closed.

“Yeah, I’m looking for Sugawara? Koushi?”

Cash register guy stood up straighter. “Oh, Suga!” His nametag read “TANAKA” in messy handwritten kanji with a spaceship next to it. “He’s here, yeah. He’s not on shift right now, but he’s in the back. I’ll, uh, get him for you?”

“That’d be great, thanks.” Bokuto offered him a smile and immediately gripped the edge of the counter so he wouldn’t reach for the chocolates stacked up to his left. _This place is trying to kill me._ He watched eagerly as Tanaka disappeared into the back room. “A Suga,” he said, “I can’t believe it.”

Bokuto heard a door opening, and spotted a flash of blond hair.

 _“Bokuto?”_ Suga shouted it across the room the moment he caught sight of the man, and Bokuto jumped.

“Hey, what?” Bokuto craned his neck to peer over the coffee machines. There stood Suga, work apron half-undone and his bangs clipped back. “It’s me, yeah? Oh my gosh,” Bokuto said. “You know who I am?”

Suga came scrambling towards him and skidded to a halt behind the counter. He held both hands out in a gesture of either surprise or welcome, Bokuto couldn’t tell. “Love, you’re famous! It’s you?”

Bokuto couldn’t help but mirror his enthusiasm. “It’s me!” He threw both arms into the air in concert with Suga.

“It’s you!” Suga shouted. “Bokuto!” He drew out the ‘o’ and leaned back dramatically.

Bokuto jabbed his thumb to his chest. “It’s me! Bokuto!”

“Whoah!” Suga exclaimed. He swiped his hair back. “And I’m Suga!”

Bokuto was glad to find Suga just as enthusiastic as he; at this point they were making something of a scene and neither could do anything but laugh. Bokuto figured they were going to get along swimmingly. He kept the grin on his face and watched as Suga quietly retreated from his parade. “How do you know it’s me?”

“I saw you, uh, one time at the rental store, yeah! And you’re a little bit famous around here, huh?” Suga mirrored his grin. “Oikawa and Kuroo talk about you, you know them, right?” Suga waited until Bokuto nodded. “I figured we were going to meet eventually. And you’re here!”

“I’m here!”

“And what brings you here?”

Before he answered Suga’s question, Bokuto let himself relish in his correctness for a moment: from the moment he’d entered the rental store those days ago, he’d been aware of someone else with Oikawa— and Oikawa hissing something along the lines of “Suga” repeatedly. Suga had just confirmed that it was him hiding beneath the counter. Naturally, at the time, Bokuto had lingered out of sight and pretended not to know that anyone was in the store, but knowing now that he’d come across the unknown guy by chance was a weird sort of satisfying. “Kuroo sent me here, or, I guess, told me where to find you. I’m trying to learn about this guy Ushiwaka, yeah? And Kuroo promised me you know all there is to know!”

Suga sucked in a breath and laughed. “Ushijima? Yeah, I can tell you about Ushijima. But Kuroo told you to find me? Man, I can’t believe he’d endorse anything to do with Waka, even if it meant just telling someone about me.”

Bokuto took after his grin. “Do those two have a rough past? Kuroo danced around the subject plenty with me.”

“Rough past is an understatement.” Suga reached across the counter and clapped him on the shoulder with alarming force. ”Here, come and sit, I’ll tell you about it.” He pointed them across the cafe towards a window seat.

“Whoah, got a date, huh, Sugawara?” Another employee appeared behind Suga in a flash. This one was short, had his hair stuck up in similar fashion to Bokuto’s own, and wore a devilish grin. “And with Bokuto Kotarou, no less.” The guy— “~*~NISHINOYA!~*~” as Bokuto now read on his handwritten nametag— stuck a hand out over the counter for a fist bump. “You’re fuckin’ famous, dude.”

Bokuto stood up straighter and grinned, taking up Nishinoya on his fist bump offer and not seeming to register the comment about Suga and dating. “I guess I am, huh? I won’t complain about getting recognised. Nice hair, dude. And nice nametag.” He pointed to the obscure pin.

Nishinoya touched his hair, eyes widening in delight as it occurred to him that he and Bokuto’s styles were essentially the same. “Whoah, man, I never realized! We’ve got the same hair! That’s fuckin’ cool, man. You’re fuckin’ cool. Saw you beat Kuroo in that race two weeks ago, nothin’ cooler. Glad you’re still hanging around here.”

“Nishinoya, stop stroking his ego. Look at him.” Suga stared at Bokuto, defeated.

Suga was right: Bokuto had thrown his head back in a laugh, hands on hips, crying a little, the whole deal. “I guess I am pretty cool, huh? I’m pretty damn cool.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “Little dude, I like you a whole lot.” He pointed at Nishinoya with little reservation. “You’ve got an eye for talent, and I admire that.”

“I sure do!” Nishinoya jabbed a thumb to his chest. “Knew from the moment I saw you that you were something special—”

“Bokuto, you only admire him for calling you cool, and Nishinoya, if you still maintain that you’re straight, I’d stop talking right there.” Suga held up a hand to prevent them from speaking. ”We’re going, now, Bokuto, we’re going—” He yanked Bokuto away from Nishinoya, cutting off both their conversation and their budding bromance. “We’re here to talk about Ushijima, and I don’t want to know where things could go with you two.”

Bokuto and Nishinoya continued to make hand motions at each other from across the cafe for the duration of Bokuto’s visit; this prompted Suga to threaten to strap Bokuto down in one of the kiddie chairs. He eventually pacified the snowboarder with a sugar-loaded frappuccino but until then no conversational progress was made.

“Please, Bokuto. You can keep asking me about how to get free drinks here, but I’m not going to tell you.” Suga had his forehead to the table.

“But the secret menu!”

“First, at least explain what prompted Kuroo to even bring Ushijima up in the first place.”

“Oh, about the race?” Bokuto was leaned back and sprawled out over his chair to the best of his ability. He made a finger-gun at Nishinoya, who was waving from behind the counter, and only looked back when Suga kicked him. “Kuroo said there was a race coming up. Some weird multi-lap shit thing.”

Suga pinched the bridge of his nose. “Multi-lap-shit-thing, okay, that’s a great place to start. Did he mean a Niseko Circuit? ‘Cause I know about those.”

Bokuto then directed his finger gun at Suga. “That sounds about right. You go up and down six times through specific trails?”

“That’s it. Those were called Niseko Circuits.”

“Cheesy.”

“Sounds cheesy, but they were actually brutal. And Ushijima was the best at them. When he was up there, it was pretty damn serious, actually.” Suga laughed.

“Kuroo said so too. He made a huge deal out of the guy, like, saying I absolutely have to talk to you about them if I’m even thinking about entering the race. I say that he can’t be _that_ good.”

“No, no,” Suga said, smiling, “he was really that good. He’s 190 cm and 90 kg of brute force. He’s lost only once here, but aside from that I don’t think anyone has taken a race off of him in years.”

“How’s he not at the olympics, then?”

“The olympics don’t run Niskeo Circuits. Circuits are unique because everyone goes at once. There’s no timer— whoever crosses the line first wins. Because of that, violence is a factor. You yourself should know! You won against Kuroo at that sunbowl race not because you were faster, but because you threw him into the woods. Same thing with Ushijima.”

“He’s violent?” Bokuto’s eyebrows both shot up.

“Yeah, he’s violent. He’s not particularly dirty or anything, his tactics aren’t cheap. ‘Cause he is fast, too, but when someone his size comes barreling down at you you either ski out of the way or get crippled. Sometimes you don’t have enough time to get out of the way. He’s thrown people into other people, he’s good at cutting people off—”

“Better than Kuroo?”

“Man, Kuroo is a shrimp next to Ushijima. Ushijima is taller and heavier and not even Kuroo would try to cut him off. If Kuroo could, then Kuroo would have a winning streak against him, but he doesn’t. Ushijima dominates whatever space he’s on, sometimes to the point of people just letting him win. It’s a game for second. He’s just that big and that fast.”

Bokuto stared off to the side dejectedly. “Kuroo said he’s rude, too.”

“Ehh.” Suga made a noncommittal gesture. “I knew him in highschool, I think he’s just not all that smart. He’s blunt and straightforward and only thinks about skiing. If you try and insult him or, like, get under his skin or something, he’s just like “what.” I don’t think he really understands it. He’s scary, though, he’s still scary; the weird silent stoic thing he’s got going on is intimidating.”

Bokuto was amused. “But he’s dumb. How can he be scary when he’s stupid.”

“He’s a really good skier, Bokuto. We were on opposing teams in highschool and well—” Suga gestured to himself. “I wasn’t the best skier on my team, or anything, but putting someone my size and strength up next to him, I just had no chance. You could probably put up a better fight, being your size, but he’s probably faster than you.”

Bokuto jutted out his bottom lip. “How should you know? Have you seen me ski?”

Suga grinned. “No, but I’ve seen Ushijima ski, and that’s enough.”

Bokuto thought for a moment. “You’ve been up against him? In a race before.”

“In high school, yeah.”

“Does he slow down?”

“What, towards the end of the race?

Bokuto nodded. “Yeah.”

“I dunno. Back when I was racing him at meets I was never close enough to actually see him on the last few laps. Even if he didn’t have perfect endurance back then, he probably does at this point.”

Bokuto breathed in slowly and nodded. “And how many laps is this race?”

Suga pursed his lips. “Six. And it’s through Superstition.”

“Yeah, yeah, Kuroo told me that much.” Bokuto was staring out the window, his chin supported by his palm. “I dunno, it depends on the day, but sometimes I can hold out pretty long.”

Suga blinked. “Through moguls, though, Bokuto? You’re going through moguls, and you’re right by one of the gulleys.”

Niskeo had two major trenches scarring its face, each of which were strictly off-limits. They were massive— both of them ran almost the entire length of the mountain. Superstition and Misoshiru, both black-diamond trails, rode right beside the larger one. It would be hard to accidentally slide down into one of them, since they were lined with trees and often roped off, but Bokuto could imagine someone getting out of control on the moguls and slipping in inadvertently. “You’re right,” he said, “but I dunno.” He splayed both hands out on the table. “I believe that I could do it.”

Suga smiled warmly. “And I figure that you can. If you beat him, though, you wouldn’t be the first.”

Bokuto’s eyebrows shot up. “Kuroo beat him?”

Suga shook his head and stirred his coffee slowly. “Nope, Kuroo’s never beaten him. Take a guess who it is.”

Bokuto squinted. “Is it someone I know?”

Suga nodded. “I know that you’ve at least met him.”

Bokuto frowned. “That narrows it down. He hangs around here, I take it?”

Suga nodded again. “He works around here.”

Bokuto threw an arm in the air. “Then you just gave it away. It’s Nishinoya.”

Suga spluttered out coffee. “No, oh my gosh.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, holding back laughter. “No, no. Oh my gosh, definitely not Nishinoya.  Absolutely not Nishinoya.” He looked up. “Hear that, Noya?” He shouted across the cafe.

“What?” Noya popped up behind the counter, holding a half-finished drink.

Suga pointed a thumb at Bokuto. “This guy thought you beat Ushijima.”

“Hah, nice one!” Noya pointed at Bokuto and laughed. “Dude, I just work at Starbucks. I’d probably die if I entered a race.”

Bokuto grinned, shrugging it off. “Me too.”

Nishinoya disappeared with another round of finger guns.

Suga clapped him on the shoulder roughly once Nishinoya was gone. “You wouldn’t die, dumbass.” He grinned. “It’s not Nishinoya, definitely. Who else could it be?”

Bokuto pouted exaggeratedly. “I have no idea, dude.”

Suga lifted one eyebrow. “Not the slightest clue? ‘Cause I’ll tell you, and it might surprise you.”

Bokuto leaned back and held out both arms. “Then surprise me.”

Suga leaned in. “Oikawa,” he said. He said it as if it were some great secret he wasn’t supposed to be  spreading. “Oikawa beat him once, when he was eighteen, in a five-lap circuit race, and it made the local news.”

Bokuto went quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Alright,” he said, “I guess that makes sense.”

Suga’s face contorted. “It makes sense? How? I didn’t know you had any idea that Oikawa even skied.”

“Well, Oikawa works at a ski shop at a ski resort, so I guess I just assumed. And,” Bokuto made a gripping motion in the air, squinting, “Oikawa’s got these… legs, you know? He’s got… skier legs. Nice legs. Lean, long, Ushijima-beating legs.”

Suga’s blinked. “No, dude, I don’t know. How do you— what do you know about Oikawa’s— Oikawa’s legs? Dude, what?”

Bokuto’s expression was entirely calm. “Oh, yeah, he and I hooked up like a week ago.” He continued making the gripping motion. “It was pretty great, actually. I should have known. It’s in his quads. He’s probably actually really good, I should ski with him sometime.”

Suga was too busy spitting out coffee onto the table to hear the rest of Bokuto’s sentence. “Bokuto, _what?_ You and Oikawa had sex? You and Oikawa— _sex?_ ” He was bent over the table, gripping the edges in both hands and staring at Bokuto, stunned.

“Oh.” Bokuto’s mouth hung open for a second. “Did I just— Did I just out him to you? Oh, holy shit, well. Oikawa’s gay. Yeah, sorry about that. I probably shouldn’t have—”

“No, no—” Suga looked traumatized. “No, I know that Oikawa’s gay.” He let out a breath. “Oikawa is very gay. I know that Oikawa is gay. But you guys had sex? You two hooked up? When did you have sex? And wait, dude, _you’re_ gay? You had gay sex with _Oikawa?_ ”

“Stop saying ‘sex,’ dude. It was like a week ago.”

Suga sucked in air and then let it out in something like a scream. _“What?”_

“Why, is— Suga, what’s the deal? Oikawa’s single, dude. It’s just a casual thing between him and I. Are you into him? ‘Cause if so, I can totally back off, man, I don’t mean to get in the way of anything. We only did it once.”

Suga pressed fingers to his temples. “Bokuto— Bokuto, Oikawa’s not—” he then shut up, and stared intensely at the table. “You know what, you don’t know. I don’t know either, I need to talk to him—” Suga produced his phone instantaneously and began punching things into it. “I need to talk to him right now, so I’m sorry, Bokuto, but I need to— I gotta go, right now.”

Bokuto pursed his lips and took another sip of his drink. “Alright, man, but I still don’t know what the huge deal is.”

Suga was already collecting his things, throwing his bag over his shoulder and swiping hair out of his face as he stared at his phone. “G’bye, Bokuto, Buh-bye—” He almost ran into the door on his way out.

Bokuto sat alone for a minute or so, mulling things over in his head, when he got a phone notification from Kuroo; some random text about their favorite volleyball team losing.

Bokuto stared at his phone, then at his drink, and then almost threw the former across the room.

“That’s it,” he said “it’s Kuroo. It’s fucking Kuroo. I’m so fucking dense, he’s the missing piece.”

Bokuto got up, shoved his phone in his pocket, and left Starbucks with the satisfying knowledge that his initial suspicions about Oikawa Tooru had been true.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HWEH this is the smuttiest chapter in the whole thing and it's not even that smutty. gotta keep that pg-13 rating lmfao
> 
> anyways mental illness, piano assessments, and school have been unkind to me for the past few days so updates may slow down but don't worry i'm still gonna finish this thing B)
> 
> enjoy ch 7!!

“Tooru, I am going to fucking murder you, I am going to fucking beat your sorry, gay ass, I am going to scream into this phone and throw it through your window and hit you in the—”

“Sugawara, I have customers. One moment, please.” Oikawa hung up.

Suga stared at him through the rental shop window, fuming. It took everything in him not to start pounding on the window and shouting; he knew Oikawa could see him, and he saw that the only “customer” Oikawa was dealing with was Issei Matsukawa, one of his friends. They loitered by the counter together on their phones, exchanging words only occasionally and in general doing nothing that would give Oikawa the right to call Mattsun a “customer.” Suga huffed out air through his nose and flipped off Oikawa through the glass. Suga figured that, based on the furious and incoherent texts Oikawa had received, that Oikawa had already figured out that he was here to bust his ass over cheating on Kuroo, and otherwise would have let him in without hesitation.

“I’m going to whoop your ass, I am going to whoop your cheating, lying ass, holy fuck—” Suga left the window behind; Oikawa hadn’t seen nor acknowledged his vulgar gesture and he estimated that he had little choice but to embarrass him in front of his friend. He yanked the shop’s door open, and the bell rang cheerfully. Suga stared bullets into Oikawa’s head from the doorway.

Oikawa jolted, but recovered his composure quickly. “Sugawara!” He crooned, “Come on in.” He gestured warmly as Mattsun looked up.

“Hey, Suga,” Mattsun said. He gave a thumbs-up.

“I am going to rip you a new asshole. I am going to shove my entire foot up your ass, 

you’re going to explain to me right now why on  _ earth _ you thought it was okay to go and

_ have sex— _ ”

“Whoah, whoah—” Oikawa put both hands up, grinning sheepishly. He knew exactly what he was in for; Suga was nearing the counter rapidly and held out a hand, presumably to grapple Oikawa by the shirt collar.

“ _ Why _ did you have sex with Bokuto?” Suga did just that, yanking Oikawa forward over the counter until their noses were almost touching. He was considerably smaller than Oikawa, but in this state Oikawa guessed that he was probably twice as strong.

Oikawa’s hands were still in the air. His grin was weakening. “I dunno what you’re talking about, man, I don’t fucking know, I don’t—”

“I’m out!” Mattsun threw his hands in the air in a similar fashion and walked out with his bag slung over his shoulder. “Knew you asked me to play decoy for you, man, but I’m out. I’m fucking out.”

Oikawa tried to flip off his friend, but Suga yanked his hand down violently. “Explain yourself, dickhead. You can go shit on Mattsun later.”

Oikawa paled once the door shut on Mattsun. “Listen, Suga, listen, I don’t know where you heard all this, but I haven’t had sex with—”

“You have had sex with Bokuto, and you  _ have  _ cheated on Kuroo.” Suga tightened his grip. “Bokuto told me himself. He said you two fucked a week ago.”

Oikawa swallowed and shut his eyes. Suga felt it as all active resistance drained from his body. “I did, yeah, I had sex with Bokuto.” He reached to remove Suga’s hand from his shirt, but Suga only yanked him farther over the counter.

“Explain yourself, and I’ll let you go.”

Oikawa put his hands back up. “Suga, I can hardly breathe in this position. I promise I’ll be a lot calmer and more coherent if you’ll let me go. Please?”

Suga recognised the earnestness in his friend’s voice and let go, resigning himself to a firm glare. “You realize you better have a damn good explanation for this, because I’m unwilling to let Kuroo go around believing that you’re a faithful boyfriend when you’re not.”

Oikawa shut his eyes and nodded. “I know, I know, Suga. Please don’t— please don’t do that.”  He let out a shuddering breath. “You’ve gotta let me explain before you run to Kuroo, okay?” He opened his eyes and gestured to the back room. “We shouldn’t talk out here.”

Suga pursed his lips and followed Oikawa when he turned away. “I wouldn’t do that to you,” he said quietly. “I didn’t really mean it.”

“Well I might just deserve it, so hold that thought.” Oikawa held the door open for him.

They sat in silence for thirty seconds before Oikawa spoke; Suga maintained a respectful distance and kept his eyes focused on Oikawa, trying to pressure him gently. Oikawa studied the carpet carefully and wrung his hands. Despite the circumstances, Suga was unsettled to see Oikawa displaying anxiety. One of the ceiling lights kept buzzing. Suga wanted to kick it.

“I know,” Oikawa said, “that this seems very bad.”

Suga considered how harsh he wanted to be on Oikawa. “A lenient interpretation,” he remarked.

“I know.” Oikawa met his gaze. “But I don’t regret it.”

Suga went silent for a moment. “You’re not helping your case by saying that.”

“Yeah, but it’s true. Bokuto and I had sex a week and a half ago. On Thursday.”

“That was the day I was here and you were— that was the day you made me leave. When he walked in on us? Behind the counter? Oikawa, was that the day?”

Oikawa nodded. “That was it. After you had gone, he started to— wait, you didn’t hear any of our conversation?”

“No, I didn’t stay in the back room, ‘cause I could have heard. I left right away. I wanted to respect your privacy.”

“Suga, that means a lot to me.”

“Shut the fuck up. If I’d known you were planning on running off and getting dicked down by someone other than Kuroo, I would have punched you in the mouth right then and there.”

Oikawa puffed out his cheeks, holding in laughter. “Just the way you— the way you put it Suga, ’dicked down,’ fuck, I’m sorry.”

Suga was kicking him under the table repeatedly. He’d gone bright red. “Get on with the fucking explaining.”

Oikawa sobered up, swallowing. “Once you— once you left, Bokuto and I started talking, and, well, I’d seen him before a couple of times, so we— Wait, did I tell you about that part? I was the one who told Bokuto how to beat Kuroo in the race.”

Surprise registered on Suga’s face for a moment, but soon disappeared. He instead looked disappointed. “Honestly, at this point, I should have known. Does that mean that the entire time you were crying to me about what you saw at the race, you were lying to me? About being sad?”

Oikawa shook his head, refusing to meet Suga’s gaze. “No, no, I was sad. Well, pissed, actually. I wasn’t so much sad as I was pissed. I faked the tears, yeah, because I didn’t want you to get the sense that I had had any control over what happened at that race. But, truth is, I let Bokuto in on how to beat Kuroo. It doesn’t mean I wasn’t sad about them kissing and everything, ‘cause I was, but I did lie a little bit.”

Suga folded his lips together. “Go on.”

Oikawa nodded. “Ukai told me that the race was happening the second that he got word of it, so I was sort of ahead of the game. It all happened that afternoon, yeah? Apparently Kuroo ran into Bokuto on the mountain and had that score to settle about the kid and the ditch, so he challenged Bokuto— yeah, you know that much. Kuroo called Ukai about the race, and then Ukai went straight to me ‘cause he knew I could get word around. I didn’t give a shit about telling people about it, at that point I was just pissed at Kuroo for racing at all, so I sought out Bokuto.”

Suga squinted. “How did you even know that Bokuto existed?”

Oikawa waved a hand dismissively. “Kuroo had complained to me about him before, I’d heard reports about some dipshit in a yellow jacket, I connected the dots pretty fast. I tracked him down through Yaku, who gave me his room number that afternoon. I, uh, went to his apartment, showed him videos of Kuroo racing, I told him about my experiences racing against Kuroo, I basically gave him a comprehensive run-down of Kuroo’s strategy— the whole thing about how Kuroo hides in the woods and swoops in. He took the information willingly and thanked me, and told me that he’d have no problem beating him thanks to what I told him. Man, I was so pissed. I don’t regret it now, but at the time I really just wasn’t thinking.” Oikawa laughed. “I didn’t realize what I was doing, I just wanted to screw over Kuroo as much as possible.”

“Didn’t Bokuto ask why you were showing him all this?”

“Yeah, of course he did. I didn’t really tell him, though, I kind of avoided the question. Of course, I introduced myself as a former competitor here and a friend of Kuroo’s, I sort of told him that I just wanted to balance out the race. I think he figured out that I had a bone to pick with Kuroo, though, and a long past. Bokuto’s really fucking smart, dude. I had no idea at the time, but he probably saw right through me.” Oikawa laughed again. “He totally did, actually, ‘cause he must have known I had some sort of relationship going on with Kuroo to provoke me later.”

Suga’s face contorted. “Oikawa, I don’t think Bokuto’s that smart.”

Oikawa frowned. “No, he is. Maybe he’s not articulate, or comes off as sort of dense, but I think some of that’s on purpose. He plays himself off as dumb to make people underestimate him. He even caught  _ me _ by surprise, Suga. That day you showed up, once you were gone, he started saying all this deliberate shit about all the cool stuff he’d been doing with Kuroo. Somehow, he knew it would make me jealous. And it did, Suga, it tore me apart. Kuroo’s been taking him up the mountain with his kids, they’ve been doing terrain park shit together, they’ve been hanging out outside of the mountain; Bokuto made it clear to me that Kuroo was replacing me.”

Suga winced sympathetically. “Did he… know about your knee?”

“What, that I can’t ski?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think he knew, but he knows now that I have a fucked knee. He hasn’t asked me to ski with him, so I guess he either doesn’t want to or has assumed that I can’t. That’s not really what he got at with me on the Thursday we hooked up, though, he was really focusing on Kuroo. He literally came in here knowing that talking about him would get to me, somehow. It made me fucking furious. Not at him, but at Kuroo. All this shit Kuroo’s been doing behind my back with this random guy— I didn’t, and I don’t, blame Bokuto, except for the provoking me— even just hearing about all the shit they could do had me, like, crying. Kuroo had the audacity to leave me behind for a disability he caused.” Oikawa paused.  “So I slept with Bokuto, as revenge on Kuroo. Revenge in that I was cheating on him, and revenge in that I was sleeping with his new favorite.  And it was fucking great, actually.” A lewd smile appeared on Oikawa’s lips. “I was taking a gamble in guessing that he was gay, but it turns out he’s better in bed than Kuroo. He’s so much more, I dunno, into it. I wanna do it again.”

Suga rolled his head back and sighed. When he came back up, he was blushing. “Bokuto does seem… enthusiastic about sex. Or, rather, about you.”

Oikawa’s eyes widened. “Oh?”

“I, uh.” Suga was laughing. “I found out that you two had hooked up through a comment he made about your legs.”

Oikawa then joined Suga in turning red. He covered up a grin with the back of his hand. “Explain, please.”

“Yeah, it was something.” Suga laughed again. “Bokuto came to me today because he wanted to learn about Ushijima—long story. Basically, I told him that only one person had beat him before.”

“And he guessed it was me?”

Suga waved his hand. “No, no. I had to tell him it was you. But when I did, he was like ‘oh, that makes sense, Oikawa has these great legs.’ Naturally, I was like ‘what do you know about Oikawa’s legs,’ and he told me that you two had hooked up. He really, really liked your legs, man. Called them ‘Ushijima-beating legs.’ Oh, and, when I freaked out on him for hooking up with you, he thought he had outed you to me. It was downright hilarious.”

Oikawa buried his face in his hands. “Did he— did he really say that about me?” His voice was hopeful and muffled.

Suga watched him for a moment. “Shit, Oiks, you really like this guy, huh? You were never this flustered over Kuroo in front of me.” He kicked him beneath the table, grinning. “He did. And I, honestly, can’t blame you for being infatuated.”

Oikawa emerged a shade of pink. “He’s blown me away a little bit, you know? I think after the neglect Kuroo’s been showing me, any sort of… affection, I guess, felt incredible.”

Suga’s expression softened. “Oikawa, that’s sad.”

“I know, bitch. Bokuto still gives better dick than Kuroo, though, so—”

“Oikawa!” Suga kicked him in the shin, hard. “I don’t need to know.”

Oikawa shrugged. “It’s true. I won’t sugarcoat it. I wanna have sex with him again.”

Suga’s brows knitted together. “Have you even seen him again since you hooked up?”

“Yeah, he’s come by the shop a few times to hang out and talk. We made out in the back room once or twice. At this point I think we both want the same thing.”

Suga went quiet, staring at his hands, for a long time. “Oikawa, is this a new relationship? Are you breaking up with Kuroo?”

Oikawa blinked at him. “Does it matter? I’m having a good time, Bokuto’s having a good time, and Kuroo doesn’t have to know.”

Suga looked up. “It does matter. I know you’re mad at Kuroo, and I understand why—”

“Fucking furious at Kuroo, actually.”

“ _ Anyways. _ I understand why you cheated, and I understand why you like Bokuto so much, but Kuroo still deserves to be broken up with properly before you start running off with other men.”

Oikawa lifted his chin challengingly. “Does he? After what he’s done?”

“Yes, he  _ does _ —”

“No, listen.” Oikawa stuck out his right leg. He wore running shorts, despite the chill outside; his white knee brace outlined harshly against his skin. It chafed above and below his knee, red lines visible and sore. Oikawa watched Suga to make sure he understood his point. “ _ Does he? _ ”

Suga stared at Oikawa’s knee, in turmoil. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, breathed out, and looked up at Oikawa. “He does, Oikawa, he still does,” he said.

Oikawa shook his head slowly and retracted his leg, tucking it beneath his chair. “He doesn’t, Suga. For the past month, he’s only made me hurt. I knew that eventually, he’d leave me behind, and now it’s happening. I knew he’d get bored with me, I knew he’d go back to racing, I knew he’d eventually discard his crippled boyfriend—”

“ _ Oikawa. _ ” Suga rose to his feet and cupped Oikawa’s face in his hands.”Don’t say that. Don’t you say that, you big— you big baby. God, you’re so dramatic, Oikawa. He still loves you.”

Oikawa pushed Suga’s hands away. “He doesn’t. And I don’t need him to anymore, so it doesn’t matter. I have Bokuto, and I have you, and Yaku, and Mattsun and Makki. I worried from the start that Kuroo was going trade me for the mountain, and now he has, and it’s fine. He can find out on his own about me and Bokuto. If it hurts him, I don’t care. It won’t hurt as much as he’s hurt me.”

Suga brought his hands back to Oikawa’s face, and crouched down so he was beneath him. He began to speak, but cut himself off and shut his eyes. “You can’t do this to him. I know why you want to, but you can’t.”

“Why not, Suga? Where were you when he was doing horrible things to  _ me? _ ”

“I was here! I was with you! And you threw me out so you could go cheat on Kuroo with Bokuto!”

“Because Kuroo hurt me!”

“Doing horrible things to people that have done horrible things to you makes the situation worse for everyone.”

“If that’s true, then why are Bokuto and I so happy? ‘Cause we are, Suga, I fucking love him. He’s the silver lining.” Oikawa’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he held up a hand to hush Suga.

Suga stood up and watched, arms folded, as Oikawa answered the call.

“Yeah, hey, I’m here.” A pause. “What, right now? I thought we talked about tomorrow.”

The flirt in Oikawa’s voice told Suga he was talking to Bokuto. Suga kicked him in the shin.

Oikawa held up a finger again. “No, yeah, I can come over.” Another pause, and a grin. “A surprise?”

“Oikawa.”

Oikawa moved the phone from his face. “One second.”

“Tooru.”

Oikawa had already put it back, laughing into the receiver. “It’s no problem. No, it’s just Suga.”

“Oh my god, eat a  _ dick— _ ”

“I think I will,” Oikawa hissed. He put the phone back to his face. “I can be there in five minutes, how’s that?” A pause. “No, I have a key, it’s fine.”

Suga had turned around, shunning Oikawa and staring bullets into the wall. He felt Oikawa nudge his calf.

“Bokuto says hi,” he offered.

Suga bit back a condescending remark. “Tell him I say hi.”

“Sugawara says hi.” He waited. “Yeah, I’ll get going, sheesh!” Oikawa laughed. “It better be damn good, Kotarou.”

“Kotarou,” Suga said, the moment Oikawa hung up. “Kotarou.”

“Yeah? So?” Oikawa leaned back in his chair, clearly feeling better. “Well, as you may have gathered, I need to go now to see him, so!”

Suga pursed his lips and folded his arms, saying nothing.

Oikawa gestured with his thumb to the door. “My shift is over in five minutes. Be a dear and fill in until Tendou shows up?”

“Go fuck yourself, Tooru.” Suga said it without any bite.

Oikawa had already pulled on a coat and slung his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll have Bokuto do it for me, thanks.” He threw up a peace sign as he walked out.

Suga understood that Oikawa turned into a bully when he was hurting. It was his shell; his way of telling Suga that he needed space. If that space meant letting Bokuto fuck him numb, than Suga was willing to give it to him. When Oikawa had been with Kuroo, it was just the same. Suga would come to him when he called, stay and listen to his problems, offer the most practical advice he could, and eventually be turned away when Oikawa heard what he had to say. Oikawa was not logical when he was hurt, he was impulsive and needy and horny and entirely opposed to Suga’s council. Suga let him be that way, because he knew resisting would lead nowhere and that Oikawa would come around eventually. Suga wondered, now, with Oikawa’s infatuation, Bokuto’s willingness, and Kuroo’s negligence, how long it would take to fall apart this time.

 

~~~

 

Bokuto’s “surprise” was him, wearing nothing but boxers.

Oikawa was, to say the least, not surprised. He accepted the gift graciously. He had a million questions to ask about Bokuto’s encounter with Suga and some frustration to let out, but was soon hit with the realization that pinning Bokuto to a wall and locking their faces together was a good way to blow off steam. Bokuto was large and strong and freshly-showered and familiar and if nothing else a physical comfort to Oikawa.

Bokuto complied with Oikawa’s eagerness happily, and in minutes had Oikawa down to nothing but a t-shirt, straddling him on the bed and breathing heavily into the side of his neck. Oikawa’s back was arched, his hands balled into the sheets above his head and his breaths ragged with gasps.

“Not yet, not yet.” Bokuto took him by the thighs and pulled the both of them forward until Bokuto was propped up against the wall and Oikawa was in his lap. They stayed there, licking into each others mouths and grinding their hips together until all memories of the day’s events had disappeared from Oikawa’s mind.

Bokuto was like this, something of a drug. He was more solid than Kuroo and more forward, louder and more responsive. Oikawa couldn’t help but to compare them. Where Kuroo would have backed off, Bokuto asked for permission and then gave more. He drew sex out, let Oikawa tell him what he wanted, and responded quickly and often with more tenderness than Oikawa expected. Additionally, between him and Kuroo, sheer body strength was something to be accounted for.

Oikawa had lied to Suga about the number of times they’d hooked up— he and Bokuto had been having sex all week.

“Hell, Bokuto, I was so close” Oikawa breathed. Both of his hands were tangled in Bokuto’s hair, tugging without reserve.  _ Kuroo would have complained just then.  _ He tipped Bokuto’s head back and bit down on his jaw as a feeble form of punishment.

Bokuto shuddered beneath him. “I know, I know, but I wanna take things slow tonight, we’re both stressed out, yeah?” He grinned against Oikawa’s mouth. “Be patient with me.”

“Don’t wanna.” Oikawa moved his mouth to Bokuto’s neck, working on what he planned to be an obnoxiously large and visible hickey. He pulled away to whisper into Bokuto’s ear, “I want you right now.”

Bokuto’s hands tightened around his hips, calloused palms against pale muscle. His voice faltered as Oikawa bit down on his ear. “God, Oiks, you work away at my self-control every time you say stuff like—”

The door to the room unlocked and began to open.

Oikawa felt it as Bokuto jolted upright, felt it as Bokuto shifted his hands to Oikawa’s waist protectively, drawing him closer against his chest and staring bullets across the room.

Oikawa drew sheets up around his waist, following Bokuto’s line of sight to the doorway. He froze, then, watching as the crack of light spread.

Light from the hallway spread across the room in a blanket, beginning at the door to the bathroom and sweeping towards the two of them. The door stopped before light reached the bed; a man’s figure stood in the doorway silently.

_ Who else has a key to Bokuto’s apartment but him and me?  _ Oikawa tensed, palms splayed against Bokuto’s shoulders. He knew.

“Hello?” Bokuto said. He craned his neck to get a better look. Oikawa’s hickey was there, still wet and turning a bright shade of pink.

The man pushed the door open further and turned to them. Light poured in behind him, obscuring his features in darkness completely and projecting his shadow onto the far wall. He was tall, lean, and young; dark-haired and dark-skinned. A jacket hung around his shoulders, a bag tucked under one arm, his posture horrendous. With long fingers, he reached for the door’s handle to open it further.

“Bo?” Kuroo said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also: tell ur friends fam brothers nd sisters about this fic. its my baby and since its a niche poly rarepair au we get very few hits for the effort i put in and it's painful to get ~10 kudos per 4k chapter that i post yknow... call me needy but i have labored tirelessly over this thing and i sincerely appreciate EVERY comment and kudo i get. those of you who have stuck with me & commented on every update, i love you & you keep me going!!! honestly thanks to EVERYONE who has left me a kudo it's my #1 source of motivation for this thing


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> obviously rn i'm posting chapter eight but as I post this i'm working on the last chapter wtf!! this thing is gonna be like exactly 50k, 12 chapters around 4k each and very intense at the end. i'm scared and VERY excited to finish it.
> 
> thank you ALL for sticking around, giving me kudos and COMMENTS (ahh!) and telling more people about this fic. i sort of damned myself to the bottom of the kudos sorter in picking a poly rarepair with a weird au but every bit of feedback i get is so nice and i appreciate every single one of you, you are my single driving force in finishing this thing and it's been SUCH a wonderful writing journey and learning experience. i have learned so much from writing this thing! this time next week i'll probably have finished it and from there updates will speed up since editing is easier than writing for me!! aaaahhh!! again please feel free to tell people about this thing, since again this is niche poly rarepair territory and getting recognition motivates me like nothing else. 
> 
> again i thank every one of you for clicking on this thing and sticking around!!!
> 
> and i would say "enjoy ch 8" like i do with every chapter but this chapter... oh man. can't wait to read the comments i get on this one. i'd go back and read the end of chapter 7 if you need to remember what happened, because this one is very long (over 6k!) and is really what ties the whole story together. very important chapter. very dramatic chapter. buckle up. B)
> 
> (minor warning for description of gore/injury)

Oikawa saw it coming two miles away, but he still screamed.

“Fuck, Oiks, not right in my ear.” Bokuto lifted him by the torso and moved him further down the bed. “It’s just Kuroo.” 

Oikawa scrambled to cover himself up, despite the fact that Kuroo had seen him naked countless times. He had never started crying so fast. “Bokuto, Bokuto we were having  _ sex— _ ”

“I know.” Bokuto was off the bed, rubbing at his neck and looking at their guest. He wore nothing but tattered underpants and a single sock. “That’s the point.”

“I—” Kuroo stood unmoving, his mouth in an O. “You two are having sex.” His bag fell to the floor. He pointed to Bokuto. “You two are having sex? Bokuto, you’re gay?”

“Well, we  _ were  _ having sex, not so much anymore, and I’ll hook up with anyone who’s hot.” Bokuto shrugged, and snapped his waistband. “Care to join?”

Oikawa choked on his own spit. “Care to join?” He fell over to his hands, balling the sheets with his fists. “Care to join? What the fuck, Bokuto? We’re not inviting him to join us! He needs to get out!”

“What the fuck, huh? I could say the same thing to you, Oikawa!” Kuroo threw his arms in the air and stepped back. “You’re fucking Bokuto behind my back? You two are having  _ sex? _ ”

Oikawa mocked his tone. “You’ve been ignoring me for the past three weeks! And guess what, Bokuto’s a far better lay than you ever were, so I wouldn’t even get me started on—”

“Shut up, holy shit! Both of you!” Bokuto held both hands out. “I brought both of you here to reconcile.”

“That’s why you texted me to come here?” Kuroo’s eyes bulged. “So that I could walk in on my boyfriend and my best friend fucking?”

“We’re supposed to reconcile by having sex? By having him walk in on us while we were having sex?”

“The fact that you two were having sex in the first place is what needs to be addressed here, holy shit!”

“Wait!” Bokuto shut them both up. “Just,” he breathed out, “consider it.”

“Consider what?” Kuroo looked ready to punch someone.

“A three-way.” He looked at Kuroo, and then at Oikawa. “Just consider how great it would be.”

Oikawa opened his mouth in protest, but then shut it. “No,” he said, “no.” He held up both hands, abandoning all efforts to hide his nudity. “There is no way in hell—”

“I cannot believe you brought me here to walk in on this.” Kuroo had a hand on his forehead. “I cannot believe you made me walk in on this. You told me it was urgent, Bokuto, I was worried that something had happened to you, and it turns out that you’re fucking my boyfriend.”

“Oh, ‘cause I’m still your boyfriend, huh? You get to decide that? I’ll have sex with anyone I want to, thank you very—”

“How long has this even been going on!”

Oikawa threw both arms in the air “Weeks, Kuroo!”

Kuroo neared the bed, and Oikawa recoiled. “Weeks? You’ve been letting him fuck you for weeks?”

“Yeah, and it’s better than anything you’ve done for me, turns out! You know I only went to him because you were being a dick to me!”

“I wasn’t being a dick to you, I had other shit going on in my life, which happens to be—”

“Think about it!” Bokuto separated them with outstretched arms. Half of his hair was still spiked up, the other was plastered to his forehead. He looked ridiculous, standing half-naked between Oikawa, who kneeled in nothing but a t-shirt on the rumpled sheets, and a fully-clothed, jacket-wearing Kuroo, who himself had yet to shut the door to the hallway. “Just think about the three of us having sex. That’s all I ask. Kuroo, I know you’ve wanted to hook up with me since day one, and Oikawa—”

“He  _ has? _ ”

Kuroo folded his lips together. “Well—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there.” Bokuto raised both eyebrows. “Listen, if you guys can’t get along at all, then that’s fine, but do it for the sex. Just—” Bokuto tipped his head back. “God, just think about the  _ sex. _ ”

Oikawa swallowed, and thought about the sex. 

Again, he opened his mouth to say something, but shut it. It was a threesome he’d considered before.

Kuroo made eye contact with him.

Oikawa wondered briefly how he’d ended up here. His hair was a disaster, only his upper body was clothed, and he was staring at two different people he was attracted to in the same way from a bed that wasn’t his. He listened as a footsteps passed by in the hall, and jumped back on instinct.

Kuroo scrambled to shut the door. He pressed his back to it once it was closed.

This situation, this absolute mess, was the first encounter Oikawa had had with Kuroo in weeks. Despite all the opportunities they had, his is how they came back together. Oikawa willed himself to feel some sort of reservation, some sort of innate opposition to doing this, but Bokuto was definitely right about the sex. That, and some part of Oikawa needed Kuroo back. Maybe Suga was right, Oikawa thought, maybe communication was the only thing they were missing— and Oikawa figured that having a spite-fueled threesome with one of their friends was a pretty painless way to communicate.

Kuroo was looking him up and down, and Oikawa let him.

Bokuto spoke up quietly. “If you guys won’t do it for each other, then do it for me.”

“No, no, I’ll—” Kuroo stepped forward, and began to unzip his jacket. He maintained eye contact with Oikawa. “I’ll do it.”

Oikawa pictured telling this story to Suga later: the expression on Suga’s face, the coffee he’d probably spit out, the scolding, and the inevitable “I told you so.” Suga would have a good time with it, and so would Oikawa. It was the kind of situation so ridiculous that passing it up seemed like a missed opportunity.

Or, at least, that’s what Oikawa told himself. The long-repressed desire curling in his gut would go unaccounted for.

Oikawa tugged at the hem of his t-shirt, and stared back at Kuroo. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

 

~~~

 

Bokuto was right about the sex.

 

~~~

 

Kuroo woke up first.

The bitch was always an early bird, damn him. He was in the middle, Oikawa nearest to the wall, and Bokuto half falling off the bed on the other side. When Oikawa awoke to him stirring, he stilled and considered his options; he needed to move off of his back, or else he was going to be sore indefinitely. Shifting towards the wall would send a clear message, and so would nearing him. Oikawa’s debate was interrupted when Kuroo stretched and slid an arm around his waist.

Despite what Oikawa had told himself about not needing Kuroo, there was a level of years-earned familiarity and intimacy between them that Bokuto had yet to replicate. Kuroo’s breath was warm against his shoulder, strands of his hair lying against Oikawa’s skin, the weight of his arm comforting and familiar. It could have been any other Tuesday morning from the past two years, and the picture would be the same. Something twisted in Oikawa’s gut at the thought.

Oikawa understood— now, at least— that he never truly intended to leave Kuroo behind. Maybe he did, in some pitiful and blind sort of rage, think that Kuroo was being an insensitive dick to him; maybe that part was still true. He wouldn’t deny it. Despite this, if all it took for Kuroo to reel him back in was a simple gesture of affection, then Oikawa knew he wasn’t ready to go. Perhaps being “ready to go” wasn’t something that he should be striving for. It was Suga’s advice that had come back to him last night: communication. Maybe, Oikawa thought, all they needed to do to fix this was talk. He squeezed Kuroo’s shoulder to wake him.

“Babe, what.” 

Oikawa’s chest ignited at that word. Kuroo’s eyes were still shut; Oikawa did not trust him to distinguish between him and Bokuto in this state, and resorted to pinching.

“Ow, what?” Kuroo opened his eyes and blinked rapidly. “Oikawa?” There was no accusation in his voice, only the gruffness triggered by sleep and certain illicit activities. The white tank top he wore— which Oikawa was sure belonged to Bokuto— was shrugged halfway off his shoulders, one of the straps was almost in his mouth.

Oikawa cleared it away for him. “We need to talk. RIght now.” Being only half-conscious made forwardness a breeze, he noted.

Kuroo flipped the bangs out of his face. “About? Oiks, babe, I’m trying to sleep.”

Oikawa pouted on reflex. “Please?”

Kuroo flicked his nose. “Well, I’m up now, so hit me.”

“Hit you? Find.” Oikawa thwacked his arm gently.  _ Holy shit,  _ he thought,  _ this really is just _

_ any other Tuesday morning. _

Kuroo seemed to realize it too and gathered himself. He cleared his throat. “What are we talking about?”

Oikawa gestured to their general situation. “About this.”

Kuroo followed his gaze. “About us fucking?”

“About us in general.”

“Oiks, Bo is asleep literally centimeters away from us.”

“It’s okay, he sleeps like a rock. Won’t be up until noon.”

Kuroo, having propped himself up on his elbows, deflated back onto the bed. “The fact that you even _ know  _ that—”

“I know, I know, sorry. That probably wasn’t a great place to start. I just want to have a conversation about the past few weeks.”

“Doesn’t sound fun, but I’ve got nowhere to be.”

Oikawa looked at him. “You don’t need to be rude, Kuroo. I’m trying to be civil.”

“I appreciate the effort. Where do we wanna start? Last night? ‘Cause that was something.”

Oikawa relaxed his frown. “I was thinking more along the lines of the race with Bokuto.”

Kuroo’s eyebrows knitted together. “What, the fact that I raced him at all? You know that was a one-time thing.”

Oikawa shifted the covers away so that he could sit up at the end of the bed, only to discover that he had no pants on. He held up a finger for Kuroo to wait, and scavenged a pair of boxers off the floor. “I didn’t know that it was a one-time thing, no, because you didn’t tell me.”

“Those are mine.”

Oikawa looked down; Kuroo was right, his boxers were blue and these were grey. “Then what do you have on?”

Kuroo lifted the covers to look. “Bokuto’s.”

“And is Bokuto wearing mine?”

Kuroo lifted them on Bokuto’s side. “Yeah.”

Oikawa snorted, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. “Aren’t we adorable.”

“Gross, but adorable, definitely.” Kuroo’s grin was genuine. “Now, about the race— I definitely did tell you that I was going to do it only once, and so far I have adhered to that promise.”

Oikawa dropped his hand, another frown appearing. “When? When did you ever say that?”

“On the day Ukai first brought it up to us, I said ‘I wasn’t gonna get back into it,’ and that the me-versus-Bokuto race was just a little thing for spite.” Kuroo waved his hand. “It should have been implied.”

Oikawa considered this. “I don’t remember any of that.”

“Well, I said it, so.” Kuroo pursed his lips. “Whether or not I said it doesn’t matter, anyways, since there’s no way in hell I’m getting back into racing.”

“Why, did Bokuto hit you a little too hard with that tree branch?”

“Wow, Oikawa, civil.”

Oikawa crooned, “I guess that doesn’t matter either, since he kissed it better after.”

Kuroo shot up. “So that  _ was _ you?”

“What, was I watching you two from the edge of the crowd? Yeah, I watched, and I left once I saw him kiss you. You think that not inviting me was gonna keep me away?”

Kuroo mumbled, “no, I just didn’t know if that one guy was you.”

“Kuroo, who else do you know who limps? You must have seen me walking away.” Oikawa fixed him a bitter smile.

Kuroo flinched visibly. “I dunno, it could have been anyone.”

“Oh, and so you didn’t care if it was me?”

“Oikawa, stop being so fucking difficult. Can I say anything right?”

“Apparently not, I guess, since I went into this conversation thinking that we might just be able to fix things. You just have to be so goddamn defensive all the time, huh? Could you just admit that you were wrong?”

“Wrong in what, racing Bokuto?”

Oikawa threw both hands in the air. “Yes! That was wrong!”

Kuroo mocked his gesture. “How!”

“You know that I didn’t want you to to race him! You know that it made me upset, and uncomfortable, and I know that now that you’ve met Bokuto, you’ve decided that I’m no longer worth keeping around.”

Kuroo squinted in disbelief. “Holy shit, Oikawa, that is not true on so many levels that I don’t even know where the hell to start with you.”

“Maybe by apologising, dickhead?”

“Guys?” Bokuto was sitting up, listening, and staring. 

“Oh, shit, hi.”

“Hey,” he mumbled. His hair was down and the sheets balled up in his hands, his expression too alert for him to have just woken up; his shirt was rumpled and inside-out. He rubbed at one of his eyes with a fist. “Why are you fighting?”

His outward appearance immediately evoked a sympathetic response in the both of them.  
“Oh gosh, sorry, Bokuto.”  
“Oh my god— Did you hear us— Sorry.”

“We were just talking.”

Bokuto parted his lips, then paused. “Why? What are you fighting about?”

Oikawa rushed out, “we weren’t fighting—”

“Yes you were.”

Oikawa flinched. “Kuroo and I have been… in an argument for a while, relationship troubles and stuff. You know that.”

Kuroo made a dismissive gesture. “It’s not really anything, Bo, don’t worry about it. You shouldn’t worry about us.”

Bokuto shook his head. “I care about you, though. I don’t know any of it.”

Oikawa’s expression softened. “I don’t know if we should drag you into it.”

“I want to know how you guys ended up here. Together, on this mountain.” Bokuto words were earnest and simple— he got this way when there was nothing else to say, when no ulterior motives were present. “Please explain it.”

“Now?” Kuroo asked. “We should probably be getting up, Oikawa— Oikawa and I shouldn’t have been fighting now, now’s not the time. It was a poor decision on our part, and we should just drop it. Laying our history on you wouldn’t be kind of us.”

Oikawa looked at him. “Yeah,” he said, “it was bad.”

Bokuto’s expression hardened. “I know that Oikawa used to ski, and that he doesn’t anymore, and I know that Oikawa got jealous when I prodded him about Kuroo. I know that you two have something messed-up behind you, and since I care about you both, I want to know. I’ve wanted to know for a long time. So please tell me.” He pouted like a child. “Now?”

Both went quiet, resisting the tug of his sincerity. They exchanged a look, and Kuroo caved first. “We can— we can tell you.”

“From the beginning,” Bokuto said.

Kuroo looked at Oikawa, asking for permission.

Oikawa nodded.

Kuroo said,  “Yes, from the beginning.”

Something in Oikawa recoiled at the thought of telling Bokuto about his and Kuroo’s past. It was convoluted, messy, and a sore spot on his ego. Even if he wouldn’t admit it, he wanted to limit others’ knowledge of it as much as possible. Suga had been there for the whole thing, going through it at Oikawa’s side, so there was no taking his knowledge of it back— not that Oikawa particularly wanted to. Suga had only lessened his pain. Where Suga was his rock, Oikawa anticipated Bokuto to become a complication. What had Bokuto done so far but stir up trouble between him and Kuroo? That was Oikawa’s fault, he now realized, looking at the three of them sitting on Bokuto’s bed.

Weeks ago, Oikawa would have anticipated none of this. How Kuroo’s rival had turned into his lover, and then into _ their  _ lover, was a series of events beyond his understanding. That was probably a lie. He could connect the dots if he cared to, but in doing so would likely reaffirm that his own anger had been the root of it.

He asked himself, then, if he regretted it. Was the trade from Kuroo to Bokuto worth it? Did Bokuto consider himself Oikawa’s boyfriend? Did Kuroo even consider them broken up? Oikawa’s eyes widened, looking between them. Wait, what did this all count as?

His train of thought was interrupted by Kuroo’s voice. “Oikawa, do you wanna start?”

Oikawa jolted. “What, telling the story? Bokuto knows most of it already, doesn’t he?”

“Oikawa, don’t be difficult.”

Oikawa’s eyes lowered. “I’m not being difficult. You tell it, if he needs to know everything so much.”

Bokuto flinched. “I don’t mean to—”

“No, no.” Oikawa waved his hand, immediately regretting his tone of voice “It’s fine. I just don’t like to dwell on the past.”

Bokuto wrung his hands. He was tentative. “I can understand that.”

Oikawa made meaningful eye contact. “You’ll understand it even better soon. Kuroo?”

“What, I have to tell it?”

Oikawa fixed him a look.

“Fine. I guess it started with me, anyways.” Kuroo scootched up until he was sitting cross-legged. He exhaled long. “Where should I start?”

“When we met?” Oikawa offered. His gut twisted harder.

Kuroo nodded. “Oikawa and I used to be competitive skiers, here.” He looked at Bokuto. “I figure you’ve gathered enough information on us to know that much already. We were the captains of two different powerhouse teams in high school. We never met, but we had heard of each other, so when we both ended up in the competitive route at Niskeo, we had this sort-of predisposition for rivalry.”

“You both skied in high school? Is that how you know Suga?” Bokuto turned to Oikawa.  
“Yeah, Suga and I are from the same prefecture, so we raced each other a lot. My team was better than his, though, and well— I’m a better skier than he is, that’s just how I’m built. We didn’t hate each other in high school, despite the team rivalry. We were actually really close. When he heard I was coming here to train for Olympic trials, he followed along.”

“Olympic trials?”

Kuroo and Oikawa exchanged another look. “That’s what we were both here for, originally. The 2014 winter Olympics was the goal. Neither of us made it, as you can tell, but—” Kuroo laughed. “That’s sort of the thing.”

Oikawa took over reflexively. “Kuroo and I hated each other a lot. We were the two fastest skiers here, until Ushijima showed up. Even when he did, we just competed for second. We both had people backing us, we were both going for sponsorships, we were both widely known, both predicted to make it onto the Olympic team. The fact that we were both basically guaranteed a spot didn’t stop us, really, we just hated each other for the sake of hating each other.”

“I didn’t really hate him so much as I needed to beat him.”

Oikawa pursed his lips. “Neither of us was better than the other. I think— I think, maybe, if one of us was distinctly the better skier, then the other would have relented a little and we could have got along, but no, we just— we just kept  _ fighting, _ god.” Oikawa’s laugh was bitter. “We just— we just wouldn’t ever stop going after each other, even when it didn’t make any sense. It got violent between us.” Oikawa held the back of his hand up to his mouth, shaking his head. “Kuroo, you gotta do the rest,” he said.

“Is that… Did that turn into one of you getting hurt, did that…” Bokuto whispered. Slowly, mouth open, he looked at Oikawa’s knee. “Is that why your knee is all…”

Oikawa nodded painfully. He breathed in, and let out a choked up “yes.”

Bokuto exhaled quietly. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it. 

Kuroo nodded at him. “That was the product of a skiing accident. It was on, ah, one of the circuit races, so. It was like the one that’s coming up. It was the last race of the season, definitely a bigger one, everyone was pumped for it and there was a lot of pressure on both Oikawa and me.” Kuroo looked to Oikawa for permission to continue.

“Go ahead.” Oikawa whispered it.

Kuroo continued with a pained expression. “It was on the last lap, and, uh, they had snowblowers going, since it was a warm day. It was at the junction of Merchen and Challenge. You know how that junction is. I had goggles on, ‘cause I used to wear them and all, and yeah. Ushijima was behind me, and so were a few other skiers, and I wanted to beat them and all, so.” Kuroo cleared his throat and swallowed. His usual diction was gone. “I was just barreling through, since— since I was just trying to get through, yeah. I didn’t swerve around the snow they were blowing. They were blowing so much snow, they don’t— they don’t do that during races anymore, because of this. I went straight, and my goggles got totally clogged up with it and I couldn’t see for shit, but I didn’t care, I was just thinking about— I  _ wasn’t  _ thinking, I wasn’t. I was just fucking skiing. And I heard Ushijima right behind me, and man, I felt his presence or saw him or some shit, ‘cause I went and barreled right into Oikawa all of a sudden once I realized Waka was there. I just—  _ god, _ I just fucking went straight into him at top speed. I was hunched, and he wasn’t, and my torso hit his right leg at the side, right at the knee and— god, fuck—” Kuroo’s eyes were red.

He didn’t cry so much as his eyes went red, Oikawa knew. His face got all scrunched up and his voice choked and he’d hide from you but he didn’t really cry. Oikawa was the crier between them, the loud, sniffly, ugly crier with little control over his emotions. Oikawa saw Kuroo, now, fully vulnerable, and knew he was getting there too.

Bokuto gave them time to collect themselves, staring at the bed and breathing into clasped hands. Oikawa wondered briefly if Bokuto, too, was the loud and ugly kind when he broke down.

“I ran into him,” Kuroo said, “and I tore his knee straight open.”

Oikawa let out the first sob of many.

“And I didn’t— I didn’t even stop right away, ‘cause I knew it was Oikawa. That’s the worst part, I think, ‘cause I knew it was him and so I was like ‘it’s okay if he gets hurt, it’s just Oikawa.’ I really had that thought. I really thought that.” Kuroo made an effort to laugh, but it was choked. “And I was halfway down Challenge when I heard his screams.”

“He was screaming?”

Oikawa nodded before Kuroo had a chance to speak.

Bokuto turned back to Kuroo with his jaw clenched. “Did you stop?”

Kuroo nodded painfully. “I stopped, and I walked back up. I had already lost, I had already— we had already lost, Ushijima had already crossed the finish line, I was like ‘fuck it.’ I clicked off my skis and left them there and walked back up. I had dislocated and fractured his kneecap, torn his ACL, his quadriceps tendon, and his patellar tendon. He was bleeding through his leggings and there was bone— there was bone sticking through.”

Bokuto was quiet.

“Essentially, he fucking destroyed my knee.” Oikawa looked up in a teary smile.

Tears were welling up in Bokuto’s eyes in similar fashion. “I don’t know what any of that sciencey anatomy stuff means, but—”

“I fucking destroyed his knee.” Kuroo confirmed, laughing and crying into his hands. “God, I hate talking about this shit, I really hate it.”

Oikawa looked at him. “Kuroo, I hate  _ dealing _ with it.”

“I know, god, I know. I’m so sorry about it, you know how sorry I am, I am so fucking sorry every day of my life.”

Bokuto looked between them; Oikawa was quiet. “Is it okay if I want to hear more?”

Kuroo nodded, sniffling. “It’s okay, man, it’s okay. I can tell it. I agreed to tell it.” He quickly wiped his nose and repositioned himself. “He, uh, was just laying there in the snow and stuff, he really needed help, and—”

“No shit, Sherlock, holy fuck,” Oikawa gaped at him.

“Yeah, well.” Kuroo coughed, defeated. “I didn’t know what to do, ‘cause I didn’t have my phone to call for help or anything, we were stuck up there alone and he was just laying there in the snow. I figured people would come looking for us eventually, but I tried asking Oikawa if he was gonna be alright waiting for someone, and he just kind of screamed.”

Oikawa laughed quietly.

Kuroo winced. “So I went halfway down Challenge in fucking ski boots and carried my skis back up. There was only one trail ahead of us, and it was an easy one, and I knew that I would be strong enough to do it, so I clipped off his skis and undid his boots and skied him down in my arms. It wasn’t so hard. I think that’s probably when I fell for him.” Kuroo flashed a grin. “He kept crying into my chest.”

“Ah, yes, it’s me, your damsel in distress with a mutilated knee. Real fucking romantic, Kuroo.”

Bokuto swallowed. “That must have been a sight, though.”

“It was a sight. The reaction as I pulled into the finish line was something I’d care to forget. People freaked out more over the fact that I was helping him than the fact that his knee was blown out— I think that triggered a lot of guilt in me. We had this reputation of hating each other so much that it overshadowed Oikawa’s injury completely. He obviously did get help, he went to the hospital, I got a lawyer for safety reasons, but no charges were pressed. There was video of the last lap, taken from a drone, I think, and it was clear that what I did was unintentional, so there was nothing legal to deal with. I never saw the video.”

“That’s cool, I guess.”

Oikawa shook his head. “Not that I was gonna sue him, anyways.”

“We don’t have the video anymore. He, uh, he recovered slowly, but I visited him in the hospital a lot. I took the rest of the season off. Neither of us went to the Olympic trials, obviously. For a while, I told myself that I was never going to ski again, but Oikawa told me to do it for the both of us.”

“What? So the whole accident is what made you guys start dating?”

“I didn’t know Kuroo was gay until he started visiting me in the hospital. We just sat and talked to each other about skiing. At first, I wanted him out, but he felt guilty as fuck— which he should have—and kept apologising and giving me flowers and cards and doing all this sappy and gross shit for me, so I let him stay around. We ended up getting really close eventually, uh, he basically kept me going through that time. I got him into Star Wars and Cowboy Bebop, he showed me all his nerdy-nerd science stuff, our interests diffused into one. He was a baby about the accident, though, he felt bad enough to swear off skiing and everything, like he said. I just made him vow never to ski competitively again.” Oikawa emphasized the last sentence.

Kuroo didn’t notice. “We were an odd couple, at first. It was a big change. It took a while for us to get used to the fact that we didn’t hate each other.” Kuroo laughed. “‘Cause we didn’t, really, it took only a few days for us to realize that we had been stupid in hating each other at all. It kind of felt like we had wasted years of our lives not being together.”

Oikawa looked up with a poorly-stifled grin on his face. “That’s some cheesy shit, Kuroo.”

Bokuto was wiping tears from his eyes. “That’s some— that’s some adorable shit, actually. That’s fucking inspiring, you guys. You started dating ‘cause of a horrible ski accident, that’s— that’s fucking cute. Is that why you don’t wear goggles anymore?”

Kuroo nodded soberly. “It prevents me from going blind under the snowblowers, yeah. I refuse to let something like this happen again.”

“Oh, shut up, ‘cute’? It’s not like I’m every going to fully recover.” Oikawa waved a hand dismissively. “I still can’t ski. I never will again. The fact that a relationship came of all this is something, I’ll give you that much, but I couldn’t tell you where things are headed on that front.” He looked at Kuroo. “Part of me wonders how we even made it this far, considering recent events.”

It took several seconds for Kuroo to register Oikawa’s challenge. When he did, his jaw dropped. “Oikawa, do you really have to bring this back up? Right now? We were doing just fine, holy shit.”

Oikawa lifted his chin and a single eyebrow in unison. “Were we, just now?” He picked at a nail. “When I say ‘just now,’ I mean the past few weeks. We can be all nostalgic for the good old days when I was bedridden in a hospital and you were turning down six-figure sponsorships left and right to ‘justify’ the thing that you did to me, but when it comes down to it, four weeks ago, you broke the one promise that you made to me. You had one promise to keep, and you still broke it.”

Shock registered on even Bokuto’s face. “Oikawa—”

Kuroo threw an arm in the air. “You just love to bring that up, don’t you? Like you’re all innocent? You’ve been cheating on my unwitting ass with Bokuto for  _ god knows _ how long, and you have the audacity to bring up one little thing that I did a few weeks ago as a form of justification? You think that racing one other person out of spite can compare to cheating on your boyfriend of two years? With one of his  _ friends _ ? The race between Bokuto and I wasn’t a real race, it was just a stupid thing between two friends.”

“Oh, please!” Oikawa shrieked. “He wasn’t your friend when you raced him! Not by a long shot! You took that thing seriously, you got Ukai to tell everyone about it, that was a real, full-blown competition. You actually got hurt, Kuroo, that was a real fucking race. And you promised me you wouldn’t race anymore. That was the one promise.”

“It wasn’t a real fucking race, holy—”

“And it wasn’t just the race, you  _ know  _ it wasn’t just the race! You had been ignoring me for weeks, you’d dismissed me when I told you not to race him, and after it all you were going out with Bokuto every night! I don’t know what the fuck you two did out there, who knows, maybe  _ that  _ should count as cheating! You didn’t come over, you slept at his place or at yours, I don’t know what the  _ fuck _ you did. I called you, Kuroo, I called you every day that week, and you didn’t reply.”

“I didn’t call because I was  _ busy _ —”

“With Bokuto! You were busy with Bokuto!”

Bokuto raised a hand. “I feel like I need to apologise—”

“Stay out of this,” Oikawa spat.

Bokuto lowered his hand slowly.

“And that’s why I cheated on you, Kuroo. That’s why I cheated on you with him, because you fucking ignored the  _ one _ promise you made when you crippled me, and you ignored  _ me _ , and you turned into an ungrateful, selfish piece of shit the moment an opportunity presented itself. I knew going into our relationship two years ago that you were gonna ditch me for the fucking mountain, you were gonna ditch me for fucking  _ competition _ , and look at what you did. It’s finally happened. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“You know what, Oikawa?” Kuroo’s eyes were reddened again. Oikawa was above him, on his knees and looming. “I’m out of here. I’m just gonna get up and leave. If you’ve got yourself convinced that I hate you, or that I— or that I don’t like you anymore, or something, then I don’t know why I’m sitting here and taking abuse. I don’t hate you, Oikawa. I don’t know where this came from, I don’t—” His voice cracked. “I don’t know why you think that I don’t love you anymore, but I clearly can’t do anything to convince you at this point. I’m sorry that I hurt you so much to make you think like this. I thought that this—” he gestured around them, to the bed, to Bokuto, “meant that we were fixing things, but you’re still upset with me. I don’t know what to do to try and fix it anymore, so I’m just going to take my leave.”

Kuroo got up, plucked someone’s shirt off the floor, took his bags by the door, and left Bokuto’s apartment without another word. He shut the door behind him softly.

Oikawa and Bokuto just watched.

Oikawa moved to where Kuroo had been sitting. Bokuto stared across the room, looking like a lost child, doing his best to ebb the flow of tears from his eyes.

“Did he just break up with me?”

Bokuto shook his head, the bottom half of his face covered with a hand. “I don’t know, I’m so sorry.”

“You can cry, it’s okay.” Oikawa said, after a silence that stretched for far too long. “I probably should be crying, so I guess you can do it for the both of us.”

Bokuto nodded with the same pained expression on his face. “Okay,” he said.

He was a loud crier, Oikawa noted.

Well, that made two of them.

It took only a few minutes for Oikawa to crawl into Bokuto’s lap, and only a few minutes after that for Oikawa to start sobbing along with him. Bokuto was the same physical comfort as before, the same solid ground for Oikawa to latch onto, the same shield. He hadn’t wavered. Only now, Oikawa knew how neglectful he’d been in using Bokuto to exact revenge on Kuroo.

Bokuto was stuttering something into Oikawa’s neck. “I didn’t know— I didn’t know that I was hurting you guys so much, I didn’t know that I was gonna cause this much trouble for you guys, I didn’t know that my coming here was gonna make you guys break up, I didn’t know that racing Kuroo was bad, I promise I wouldn’t have done it if I knew it was bad, I’m sorry that I did all this to you guys—”

“Bokuto, shut the fuck up,” Oikawa said, doing his best to employ Suga’s tactic of saying horrendous things in a compassionate tone of voice. “You’re wrong about literally all of that, and I don’t have the energy to explain it to you right now, so please rest assured that none of it is your fault, most of it is probably mine, and just hug me, okay?” Oikawa wondered if he was using Bokuto as a tool again. The ache in his chest told him he had other things to worry about; he pressed his cheek back up against Bokuto’s neck and deflated.

“That’s—” Bokuto stuttered. “That’s okay. I just feel bad.”

“Please don’t. I should be the one feeling bad.”

“Really bad.”

Oikawa leaned back, fitted a hand around Bokuto’s cheek, and sealed their mouths together. “Please don’t,” he said, pulling away to breathe. He shut his eyes tight. “‘Cause that would make two people I’ve hurt, and I don’t think I can take that right now.”

Bokuto leaned in for another kiss, and that was enough of an answer.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOOO EARLY UPDATE!
> 
> i have 3 days off from class starting tomorrow and i'm so close to finishing this thing--i'm probably gonna do it within that timeframe. scary!!!
> 
> enjoy ch 9! this one's a little bit sad, lil bit funny, lil bit scary. lots of fun to write *^*

Things normalized. Kuroo was gone.

Oikawa buried his sorrows six feet beneath the ground--or rather beneath six feet of toned muscle and insatiable sex drive, in the form of Bokuto, every night.

Kuroo’s things disappeared from Oikawa’s apartment within a week. Oikawa found Kuroo’s spare key laying on his bed in exchange. Upon finding it, Oikawa wanted to throw it out the window, but gave it to Bokuto instead. He felt it symbolized something greater, like moving on, but it really just left him feeling hollow and unprepared for change.

Bokuto was good. Hell, Bokuto was great. Oikawa figured that in a world in which he’d never met Kuroo, he’d be entirely content dating Bokuto. Bokuto could keep up with Oikawa’s obsessive nature, could hold a conversation about literally anything—Oikawa found this out while subjecting him to an X-Files TV marathon, in which Bokuto willingly listened to him talk about different types of UFOs for an hour on end—and had a sort of baseline enthusiasm for life in general that Oikawa wouldn’t mind having himself. He was responsive to Oikawa’s emotions and surprisingly compassionate at times--something Kuroo had never excelled at.

He was susceptible to bouts of “interminable bummage,” as Suga called them, where something could set him off into a state of depression that required either a serious motivational speech, sex, or a carton of ice cream. Oikawa, often unable to take care of even his own emotions, typically went for the third option. If no ice cream was on hand and Oikawa was in no mood for sex, he’d just sit there with Bokuto and mope along with him. Some part of him found it satisfying. Kuroo would have never allowed Oikawa to bum around for three hours straight.

“Maybe that’s not a good thing,” Suga said pointedly, jabbing a chopstick at his chest.

The two of them had spent the entire afternoon on the floor of the rental shop, Suga loitering on his laptop while Oikawa caught up on the never-ending backlog of ski repairs. He currently had a pair of 170-cm skis spread over their tiny coffee table, a screwdriver in his mouth, and two in his hand. There was half of a ski boot attached to Suga’s foot, from when he’d needed a mold to work around.

“Maybe, but I enjoy it.” Oikawa anticipated no customers to come in for the rest of the day, since there was three feet of snow on the ground and half the mountain was closed under the unexpected weather conditions. He and Suga and Bokuto had come in at noon to take over after Makki’s shift, thinking they’d be able to come and go at will, but ended up trapped in before any of them had realized it. There was a shovel in the back room and plenty of cold-weather gear on hand, but none of them were particularly eager to dig out the store, so here they remained, slowly emptying the back room’s supply of granola bars and sifting through Tendou’s collection of sports magazines. Bokuto had disappeared ten minutes ago to go “try on” some snowboard boots he’d had an eye on, which Oikawa knew was code for “I’m going to shoplift them,” but considering Oikawa’s shoplifting track record within his own place of employment, he felt he had little authority to stop him.

“If I see you slipping into bad habits like that in Kuroo’s absence, you know I’m gonna stage an intervention.” Suga flashed a grin. He’d found what was probably a several-weeks old pack of supermarket sushi in the back of the back room’s minifridge, and now ate it, delighting at the variety of disgusted faces OIkawa was making.

“Right. Anyways,” Oikawa said. The mention of Kuroo left something ringing in his ears. “As if he kept me in line. I was the one keeping  _ him _ in line--and you know it was always you collecting me after the all-night sessions of ski boot tinkering.”

“You never did fix that one fractured footbed, did you?”

“Never did. That, and all the spontaneous three-a.m. Firefly rewatching marathons? You have a sixth sense for when I’m making poor decisions, Suga. I never got past episode two.”

“If you hadn’t started at three a.m. I would have let you do it, you know. It’s just that drunkenly texting me that you’re about to start binge-watching 18 hours’ worth of American sci-fi TV programming in the middle of the night isn’t exactly a brilliant idea.”

“Do you have a special text ringtone for me, or something?”

Suga had two sushi skewered through a single chopstick; they were both a worrying shade of green. “Maybe,” He said, grinning. “Someone’s got to take care of you, since you sure as hell don’t take care of yourself.”

Oikawa tipped his head back, trying to ignore the stinging truth of the statement. “I admit, through the years that we’ve known each other, you have probably lengthened my lifespan considerably.”

“Someone said something about binge-watching Firefly?” Bokuto appeared in the doorway to the back room, a shoebox tucked under his arm and a popsicle stick in his mouth.

Oikawa patted the spot next to him. “Twice, I’ve been struck with the desire to watch the entire series from start to finish at three a.m., and have made the poor decision to text Suga about it, and each time, without fail, he has come over and broken into my apartment to stop me and drug me up on NyQuil to put me to sleep.”

“Man,” Bokuto said, grinning. “What are friends for?” He disposed of his shoebox on the floor next to him and stretched out across Oikawa’s lap. Such displays of affection had become commonplace between the two of them over the past few weeks, Oikawa considered it their coping mechanism for Kuroo’s absence. “I’d probably come over and just watch it with you.”

“And that’s why I’m here.” Suga jabbed a thumb to his chest. “Not that I haven’t made some seriously questionable decisions in the past, though, so I’d take everything I say with—”

“What, like the onesie ski squad?” Oikawa saw his opportunity and lunged for it. He grinned as he saw Suga flush. “You guys were fucking wild.”

Bokuto’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s this?” He got up on his elbows and made a face at Suga. “A onesie ski squad?”

Suga rolled his eyes, scratching at the back of his neck. “Well,” he began. “A long, long time ago, some friends and I thought it would be funny—”

“A long time ago?” Oikawa scoffed. “One year, pfft. Talk about bad decisions.”

“ _ Anyways _ , it was a while ago. Some friends and I came up with the idea to get together on weekends and night-ski the easier trails while wearing some… obscure outfits. For shits and giggles.”

Oikawa raised an eyebrow. “Right, Bokuto, get this: Sugawara Koushi and like ten other people, all drunk, barreling down Banzai with light-up necklaces and full animal-print pajamas, blasting K-pop and singing along to it.”

Bokuto was choking on laughter. “Dude, no. This cannot have been a thing.”

“Nuh-uh, not just any pajamas, Tooru, it’s in the name! We were the onesie ski squad, and we were the lifeblood of Niskeo for weeks on end. Animal print or bust, and you had to bring your own glowsticks. Tanaka was in charge of the jukebox, so girl groups on Saturdays and Exo only on Sundays. Oh, and no snowboarders allowed.”

“‘The lifeblood of Niskeo,’ right. You did it for like two weeks, Suga, until mountain police busted your ass for it.”

Suga shrugged. “It was harmless fun. I still uphold that we should have been allowed to do it, especially considering the things people have been getting away with in recent times.” He fixed Bokuto a look. “Kid-pusher.”

Bokuto stuck his tongue out, stifling a laugh. “It was, like, once. And I’m insulted that you didn’t allow snowboarders. Snowboarders came up with pajama skiing.”

“Did they do it with style?” Suga pursed his lips and waved a hand flippantly. “We had a brand, you see. We were exclusive, infamous, and snazzy. We were cool with the kids, we scared the shit out of tourists, we had top competitors in our ranks, we had our moments of glory.”

“Like that time Yaku almost ate the contents of a glowstick?”

“He was drunk, Oikawa, and on a chairlift with five other drunk people encouraging him.”

“A glowstick.”

Bokuto scrunched his nose. “I’d eat a glowstick.”

“Then you would have fit right in with the onesie ski squad, huh? We played Christmas tunes, too, and we always sung on the chairlifts. We had a theme song, too, if I could remember it.”

Oikawa raised an eyebrow. “I’m glad you guys got shut down.”

“Again, Oikawa, belittle us all you like, but we were seriously cool.”

Bokuto pouted concedingly. “I would have joined it.”

“Traitor,” Oikawa whispered down into his lap.

Bokuto lay there, his hair getting smushed down against Oikawa’s leg. “It sounds like a good time.”

“Traitor,” he reiterated, and liked a finger to stick it into Bokuto’s ear.

“Gross, fuck—” Bokuto squirmed and yanked Oikawa’s hand away. “That was  _ mean _ —”

“Guys?” Suga bumped the table with a knee as he rose to his feet, alarm registering on his face. He pointed across the room. “Uh, speaking of onesie ski squad members…”

Oikawa and Bokuto followed his gaze out the store’s front window, where a man in a purple jacket was trudging through the snow alone. He was tall, broad-shouldered, seemingly lost, and had on a pair of extremely large snowshoes.

“Are those snowshoes? Actual snowshoes?” Bokuto had crawled up to see by wrapping his arms all around Oikawa’s shoulders.

Oikawa gawked. “Fuck the snowshoes, man, is that—”

“That’s him,” Suga said, mouth agape. “That has to be him.”

Oikawa gesticulated wildly before even speaking. “That’s him? Why is he here? What the fuck is he doing at Niskeo? Why the hell— wait, he was part of the onesie ski squad? Suga?”

“Who?” Bokuto asked.

“I’m pretty sure that he’s here for the race next week, Oikawa.”

Oikawa’s eyes bulged. “Is he  _ coming in here? _ Doesn’t he know we’re closed? Is he seriously coming in here?”

Bokuto pouted at Oikawa, who ignored him. “Who?”

“We’re not technically closed, you know, but I don’t know why the hell he’d decide to come now, of all times, when the goddamn mountain itself is— fuck, he’s coming in here. Oikawa, he’s coming in here. He’s entering the fucking store.”

“Shit, fuck, we gotta clean this place up right now. Get this mess off the table, I’ll take care of the skis and crap, Bokuto, get off the couch—” Oikawa lifted Bokuto off him as best as he could. “I cannot  _ believe _ that he’s trudged through the snow in freezing weather just to come here. Why the  _ fuck  _ is he here?”

“Is anyone gonna answer me? Who is this guy?”

The man was still outside, sitting down in the snow by the door to unclip his snowshoes. His jacket was purple, his hair a dark brown, and his appearance as a whole chillingly familiar to both Oikawa and Sugawara. He dwarfed even the heaps of snow beside him.

“That’s Ushijima Wakatoshi,” Oikawa said. He stood quietly, staring across the store through the windows that lined the far wall. “And on this mountain, he’s never lost to anyone but me.”

“Oh, well shit,” Bokuto said. “That’s the guy Suga told me about. Why is he coming in here? Does he wanna fight?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Suga paused his cleanup efforts to squint at Bokuto. “And he’s not the type to show up looking to fight, or anything. He’s the type to come in and  _ cause  _ fights, just by being somewhere, but that’s not of his own doing.”

Oikawa was shoving a pair of poles beneath their coffee table. “My guess is that he just wants skis. Why here and why now, I don’t know, because ostensibly he’s been here for several days already.”

Bokuto frowned. “He freaks me the fuck out, man, coming here alone. Does he not have friends, or something?”

“Oiks, he’s coming in.” Suga jerked his gaze over his shoulder to make eye contact with Oikawa.

Oikawa whipped around to face the door, eyes wide and mouth agape, half bent over the shoebox Bokuto had brought in. At the sight of Ushijima his fingers curled around it on reflex.

Ushijima left his snowshoes in a pile of snow outside when he came in, and pushed open the door with his left hand. The store’s bell rang rang a little too cheerfully. He met Oikawa and Suga’s stares stoically; he held the door open for several moments, looking between them. The chill that wafted in behind him made Oikawa shudder. He was passively intimidating, both his physical and emotional presence seizing command of the room in an instant. Oikawa figured that he was probably imagining it--Ushijima hadn’t come in here to intimidate them, but the searing sensation on the back of neck spoke for itself. He wondered how long he’d have to endure it.

Oikawa looked for it, then, and Ushijima’s jacket had the Japanese flag sewn into the right breast.

“Hello,” he said, in the same deep monotone that they’d known years ago. He let go of the door and bowed quietly. “Is this the rental shop at this mountain?

Bokuto turned around at the sound of his voice, eyes peeled wide. He placed a hand on Oikawa’s shoulder from behind.

“Yes, it is,” Oikawa said. He mirrored Ushijima’s bow, but no one else did.

Ushijima nodded once. “Then I would like to rent a pair of skis.”

Oikawa waited, maintaining eye contact, for several moments. When Ushijima did nothing, he said: “Okay, come this way,” into the silence. He gestured to the storage room in the back and turned around without waiting. 

Ushijima, completely expressionless, followed him.

Suga and Bokuto waited and watched, trailing Ushijima’s footsteps with their eyes until he disappeared behind the door. It shut with an anticlimactic slap.

“Holy fuck,” Bokuto said, “it’s like he sucks the air out of the room.”

Suga was making a squeezing motion in the air. “You can, like,  _ feel  _ the tension between them.”

Bokuto snorted and scratched the back of his neck. “I hope Oikawa’s alright. I hope they don’t fuck back there or anything.”

Suga kicked him in the leg. “There’s literally no chance of that happening.”

Oikawa was in a state of numbness. Ushijima stood behind him as he flipped through the racks of skis, replying flatly to the general questions Oikawa asked about material preference and binding settings. It was the same thing he’d go through with any other experienced customer, the same thing he’d go through with any professional skier who walked through the door. Did Ushijima not recognise him? Some part of him had anticipated Ushijima to remember him, to give him a reaction, something. Why else would Ushijima come here, if not to see him? Oikawa was certain that Ushijima had dozens of pairs of skis, some of them probably custom-made. A used pair of rentals, even the nicest ones they had, wouldn’t compare to anything a custom manufacturer could make. And even if he had brought only one pair, and if he had somehow managed to break that one pair, he couldn’t have done it today: half the mountain was closed, and from what Oikawa had gathered the only trails open were the easy ones. He had no understandable to come here today. Someone must have tipped him off to Oikawa’s working here, and he must have come seeking him out.

Throughout the duration of his visit, Ushijima said nothing that would indicate his knowing Oikawa nor Suga. He remained entirely aloof as Oikawa rung him up, sent no glances towards Suga and Bokuto on the couch--despite their overt gawking and whispering--and said nothing even as Oikawa fiddled with his own nametag in plain view. Oikawa couldn’t decide if he was ignoring them all for a reason, or if he really didn’t remember them. Or that he did, but he just didn’t care about them enough to offer a reaction. Oikawa then faced the pressing question of which option made him angriest, because he saw none of the potential scenarios as forgivable. He and Ushijima had known each other as rivals on the slopes for several years, and here Ushijima stood, sneezing into his arm as Oikawa punched numbers into a cash register. It all seemed too inglorious and bleak to be real.

Ushijima paid in cash, and Oikawa immediately set out to come up with a reason to let this bother him. He held his skis upright in his left hand; they were taller than him, he had asked for 200s. Oikawa would have normally labeled such a request as “cocky,” but knowing Ushijima’s experience level, he would have second-guessed him if he’d asked for anything else. He was renting the pair for one week, and said no when Oikawa asked him if he wanted his receipt.

Bokuto and Suga were still huddled together on one end of the couch, both uneasy and attentive, watching Ushijima’s every move. Ushijima had yet to look at them once. Oikawa thought he saw Bokuto clinging to Suga’s hand; he blamed neither of them.

“Thank you,” Ushijima said, jerking Oikawa awake. He nodded once. “Oikawa Tooru.”

Oikawa felt his own blood pressure spike. “Ah—” he said, but stopped when he saw Suga flailing on the couch across the room. He must have heard. “Thank you as well.” He adjusted his nametag, trying to tell Suga that Ushijima was probably just reading off of it.

“I hope to see you in the race on Friday. I will be there.”

Oikawa blinked.

_ I hope to see you in the race on Friday. _

He hadn’t received such a gut-punch in a few days. Probably since the most recent incident with Kuroo, he realized; it was only on rare occasions that he went from perfectly fine to wanting to projectile vomit in seconds. There was very little, very little, in his world that could justify such a statement from Ushijima, because Ushijima  _ knew. _ Suga appeared to be on the same page, since Bokuto was now restraining him by the torso with a hand fitted over his mouth.

“That’s nice,” was all that Oikawa said. He knew that it would pacify Ushijima and get him out, and that’s all that he needed.

Ushijima did just that, nodding once and then turning away and getting out the door in seconds. His ridiculous snowshoes were still out there waiting for him, now half-buried in the snow. Oikawa had secretly hoped that someone would come by and steal them.

“Holy fuck!” Suga screamed, the second he was released from Bokuto’s hand. He scrambled off the couch, looking at Oikawa in a state of panic. “He just fucking said that. He just fucking said that. That’s some fuck shit, Oikawa, that’s some fuck shit, some real-ass fuck shit—”

Bokuto looked around frantically, eager to contribute. “It’s bullshit! It’s bullshit, I don’t know exactly what he said or why it was so bad, but it was some bullshit—”

Oikawa appreciated their efforts to console him, but he was already searching for something to throw across the room. He settled on one of the stray ski boots left beneath the counter. He made brief eye contact with Suga before hurling it.

It hit the far wall with a slam, and left a small dent. “Fuck him,” Oikawa breathed, “fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him. I’m going to scream, holy fuck, I’m going to scream—”

“He had no right to say that, Oikawa, I cannot believe he just came in here and said that. I understand exactly why you’re so angry. He had no right to say it.” Suga wasn’t chastising him for throwing a ski boot into the wall, which certainly drove the gravity of the situation home for Oikawa.

Bokuto was clearly hesitant to speak up. “What did he— what was so bad?” He raised his hand like a student, looking at Suga.

Suga shook his head and whispered, “Oikawa will tell you.”

Oikawa exhaled slow, still staring at the fresh dent. “Ushijima knows that I can’t ski, Bokuto, and he just said that he hoped to see me in the race.”

“So…” Bokuto struggled to connect the dots. “So that was an intentional jab at your injury?”

Oikawa considered what Ushijima would want from him. Like the problem he’d once faced with Bokuto provoking him over Kuroo, he now saw the same incomprehensible antagonization coming from a different source. It was a calculated comment, wasn’t it? It didn’t seem like Ushijima— at least, not on the surface, and not in Oikawa’s experience. Ushijima’s exterior was forever indifferent and passive, prone to shocking others only in straightforwardness. Since when had Ushijima insulted him intentionally? Since when had Ushijima understood him enough to insult him?

But there was no chance that Ushijima had forgotten about Oikawa’s accident. He was there, right behind Kuroo, the day of the incident. He was there, at the bottom of the mountain, accepting a medal when Kuroo came down with a bleeding, screaming Oikawa in his arms. Oikawa doubted that anyone who had been there had forgotten it. It wasn’t like Ushijima didn’t know that Oikawa was permanently off the slopes, either. Oikawa had been his number-one competitor. He would have been told the moment the reports came in that Oikawa’s knee was blown irreversibly. Hell, he would have celebrated. Ushijima knew about his injury, he knew about his bad leg--there was no other explanation for his comment.

“Yes,” Oikawa said, “yes it was.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YIKES this chapter is 7k and FULL OF PAIN.
> 
> (i'm getting closer to finishing chapter 12, the last chapter, as i'm posting this. i've been loaded with assignments and stress this week, and it has been the hardest to write, but it is very exiting to be so close to finishing!)
> 
> enjoy ch 10~ B)

Bokuto had suspected that there was something between Oikawa and Kuroo from the day that Oikawa had told him how to beat Kuroo in the race. Picture Bokuto’s mindset— here Oikawa was: a “friend” of Kuroo’s who worked at the rental shop at the base village, presumably a skier himself, who claimed that his only motivation for divulging information about Kuroo was “balancing out the race” and “serving justice.” Of course the guy wasn’t giving him the whole picture. And of course he’d gone so far as to track down Bokuto’s apartment number— apparently his friend Yaku worked at the check-in desk for their complex, and he’d gotten the information from him.

“Because it’s important that this guy loses to you,” he’d said, rolling back and forth on his feet in the doorway. He’d wore only a t-shirt and a hat, jeans and crocs. Clearly he’d come in a hurry.

Bokuto had shrugged and waved him inside.

Bokuto had taken the information Oikawa gave him willingly, and tried not to ask too many questions. After all, this information was his key to winning, right? And the videos Oikawa had of Kuroo skiing in past races weren’t anything Bokuto could have gotten off the internet. From what he was being told, Kuroo’s strategy was scary, with the lurking and the swooping in and cutting people off. It was downright dangerous; every time Kuroo did it he banked entirely on the chance that the person he was cutting off would stop for him. His strategy had holes, though, and Oikawa was sure to explain them to him: 

“Keep looking over your shoulder for him, he’s gonna be right by the edge of the woods. Once you see him, just get up right next to him and keep him pinned there. He shouldn’t know how to react to it. Or, if you need to, throw him into a side trail to slow him up and just bomb the rest. If you do it right, he should lose.” Oikawa had always used the negative phrasing, “make Kuroo lose,” or “keep him out,” never anything about Bokuto winning the race himself. Why Oikawa was showing him this, and why making Kuroo lose in a casual race was “serving justice” was beyond him, but he knew he would have been stupid to turn Oikawa away.

Oikawa had been nice to him, anyways, and before he left Bokuto had asked for his number.

“To stay in touch,” he’d said, “since you did a big favor for me, you know?”

Oikawa had nodded and given it to him.

From there on out Bokuto considered them friends. Here was a friendly and attractive guy who knew about skiing and had essentially won a race for him. They hung out a few times, Bokuto came up with excuses to come to the rental shop and he and Oikawa just talked. They never talked about the race, however, and that’s part of why Bokuto got curious— Oikawa wasn’t willing to bring it up. 

Still, Bokuto had no reason not to pursue him; Oikawa  _ seemed _ gay and Bokuto figured that whatever spite that had driven Oikawa to betray Kuroo could have erupted from a broken relationship.

And that, in truth, is what had driven Bokuto to test the waters. His decision to show up and bug Oikawa at work over Kuroo was only to see if they were currently or had been dating. Bokuto had plenty of things to leverage within his grasp; he and Kuroo had been hanging out for a few weeks, he was close with all his kids, and Bokuto was comfortable enough with Oikawa at this point that showing up at the rental shop would be alright even without an excuse, but he decided that driving the “I’m close with Kuroo” point home even further by bringing one of Kuroo’s kid’s broken ski for him would be even more effective.

And it was: Oikawa broke down immediately and Bokuto’s pride in being correct only lasted a few moments. Why was he doing this? Out of curiosity? He was making this grown man cry rather than just sit down and have an honest conversation with him about Kuroo? It was an immediate wake-up call, and Bokuto would have confessed everything and apologised on the spot if not for Oikawa suddenly asking him to have sex.

That was something he couldn’t have anticipated. Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised him too much— it was clear to him now that Oikawa and Kuroo had been in some sort of relationship, therefore Oikawa was definitely  _ gay _ , and seemingly very forward, and Bokuto realized suddenly that he was more than okay in having sex with him. It didn’t occur to him immediately _ why  _ Oikawa wanted to have sex; the way he’d asked was abrupt and almost desperate and Bokuto categorized it as something along the lines of a flustered schoolgirl’s confession. It didn’t fit together with Oikawa’s breakdown, and Bokuto couldn’t connect the dots around Oikawa’s need for further revenge until he had Oikawa and Kuroo in the same room.

And that was probably the kicker--Bokuto hadn’t intended to make Oikawa mad at Kuroo in talking about hanging out with him, he’d just wanted to know if the two of them had ever been in a relationship. He’d totally overdone it, and Oikawa turned him into another tool to punish Kuroo. In hooking up with him, he was cheating. Oikawa and Kuroo were still considered “together” at the time of their hookup. Bokuto hadn’t known that.

He realized it only as he tried to initiate the threesome. Kuroo called Oikawa his “boyfriend” and everything clicked together. Oikawa and Kuroo weren’t exes, Oikawa wasn’t bitter about Bokuto hanging out with his ex, he was jealous of him for hanging out with his  _ boyfriend _ . Bokuto figured that Oikawa probably blamed him for taking Kuroo out of his hands. And it explained why Oikawa had asked for the initial hookup so abruptly: it was an act of revenge.

That didn’t stop Bokuto from getting his threesome, though.

His motives for it had been innocent, too: he knew the two of them weren’t getting along and he figured having sex would mend things if only slightly. He couldn’t have been more wrong. The hysteria that ensued the next morning was shocking, completely outside of his understanding, and emotionally scarring. Kuroo and Oikawa’s backstory was fucking  _ tragic _ to him, and he had no idea their scars ran that deep— literally. Oikawa was never going to ski again, and Kuroo had vowed to never race again as repentance for what he did. And Bokuto was instrumental in breaking that promise. He could trace it back neatly to the initial race against Kuroo: if Bokuto hadn’t been inconsiderate enough to shove Yamaguchi into that ditch, none of this would have happened. Kuroo wouldn’t have gotten mad and raced him, Oikawa wouldn’t have gotten upset, Oikawa wouldn’t have cheated on Kuroo, and the two of them wouldn’t have broken up.

Bokuto, although he would never admit it, blamed only himself. Having had the opportunity to be with Oikawa, to be with  _ both  _ of them, was inconsequential in the context of their breakup. These two were probably made for each other, they’d been together for two years and known each other for even longer, they’d left both emotional and physical impacts on each other’s lives, and there was something so damn heart-wrenching to Bokuto about what the accident did to them.

And he’d broken them up. Or, he felt like he did; he was foggy on the truth of the matter and couldn’t have articulated it if prompted, but his chest hurt when he thought about it and he figured that was evidence enough to incriminate him.

And that was mostly why he felt so conflicted, now, as he watched Kuroo and his kids arguing over which trail to pick at the junction of Kokoutai and Furiko, with every opportunity to approach them. It was a cold Wednesday, a clear day, late in Kuroo’s shift: they’d be heading in soon and some of the boys looked tired.

Bokuto longed to play dumb. He could go over there and give out fist-bumps, tease Tsukki, pretend that nothing had ever happened, and that he was just stopping by, good ‘ol uncle Bokuto, to encourage their bad decisions and skid-stop snow onto them while they’re not looking. He remained many meters away, alone, behind a pack of tourists and hugging the woods. 

Kuroo’s voice stuck out to him: “Furiko’s boring as shit, you know that. We do it too much.”

Bokuto was glad to hear that he hadn’t lost his eloquence.

“But we did Kokoutai last time and Kenma fell over.”

“Tsukishima pushed me.”

“You know I didn’t.”

“He pushed me last time, too.”

Bokuto watched Tsukki as he rubbed his temples. “You guys just fell on the moguls.”

“Well, I’m bad at moguls, so you’re not allowed to make fun of me.” Hinata pouted and shuffled around to shun Tsukki, arms folded. He opened his mouth to say something, but paused. Bokuto realized too late that Hinata was facing in his direction. “Bokuto! Bokuto, is that—?” Hinata waved poles, hopping up and down. He tapped Kageyama on the shoulder, then pointed. “Is that Bokuto?”

Bokuto froze. He wanted to go and see the kids; he wanted to fly over there and take the risk in assuming that Kuroo wasn’t angry at him, play dumb and act incredulous if prodded. It would be okay if he didn’t stay with them, right?

Kuroo whipped around just as Bokuto began to approach them, eyes ablaze. “Bokuto—”

“Guys, it’s Bokuto!” Hinata shouted.

“Bokuto? Where has he been?”

“Wait, he’s coming over here!”

“Where is he?”

“I thought he was dead.”

“Oh my gosh, Bokuto!” Yamaguchi scrambled up to greet him, intercepting him halfway in a waist-high hug and very nearly getting bowled over. “Bokuto, I have something I need to show you, like right now, I’m so glad you’re here, we all thought we weren’t gonna get to see you at all today!”

“Yeah?” Bokuto grinned down at him, a hand on his head. He looked up briefly to find Kuroo glaring, Hinata tugging on his sleeve eagerly and asking if Bokuto could stay.

“We all wanna see him! He hasn’t been around for like forever!” Hinata looked between them with a grin. “Right, Kageyama?”

Kuroo spoke before Kageyama had a chance. “He hasn’t, huh? Well, that’s been for a reason. We’ve been hanging around here long enough, boys, I say it’s time to go. We’re going on Kokoutai.” He drew Kenma and Hinata closer to him protectively.

Bokuto paled at Kuroo’s coldness. The other boys did the same, seeming to get a grasp on the tension between them. Kageyama was eyeing Bokuto quietly. “Kuroo, why—” Hinata began.

“We’re going now,” Kuroo said simply. He turned Kenma and Hinata around and pulled on his pole straps. “No arguing.”

Bokuto’s heart wrenched.  _ What? _ He hadn’t even had a chance to speak to them before Kuroo was hurrying off. He let go of Yamaguchi reluctantly.

Yamaguchi reached out a hand in protest. “Wait, Kuroo, I need to tell him something— Why are you making us leave?”

“We’re leaving.” Kuroo looked over his shoulder and made eye contact with Bokuto. His gaze was frigid and impersonal. “Because I say so.”

“But—” Yamaguchi’s hands curled in the fabric of Bokuto’s coat. “Why can’t he come with us?”

Bokuto forced himself to speak. “Yeah, Kuroo. Why not?” His voice wavered; there was little way for him to hide the shock he felt.

Kuroo’s expression only darkened. “You know very well why. Get away from him, Yamaguchi. The boys have already left.”

_ Get away from him, Yamaguchi.  _ The words echoed in Bokuto’s mind, twisting in his gut and numbing his senses. “Kuroo, why—”

“Shut up, Bokuto.”

Bokuto breath caught in his throat. He paused to say something, but decided against it and shut his mouth. He let his hands settle on Yamaguchi’s shoulders quietly, defiantly.

Kuroo faced away from them, chin tilted up. “We’re going, Yamaguchi.”

Yamaguchi, clearly shell-shocked, sent him a forlorn look before detaching from his coat and retreating towards Kuroo’s outstretched arm. “But Kuroo, I still need to tell him—”

Kuroo didn’t even cut Yamaguchi off with words, he simply took off down Kokoutai with Yamaguchi trailing by his arm. “Kuroo, you gotta wait, why are you so—” was the last thing Bokuto heard.

Bokuto stood there, sinking, until a tourist ran into him and he moved towards the trail signs. He watched the back of Kuroo’s coat until he disappeared over the rise in a bank. 

Something sour was rising in Bokuto’s throat. Did Kuroo blame him too? Did Kuroo blame him for tearing him and Oikawa apart— is that was this was about? Bokuto had felt like it was his fault, but he didn’t really believe himself until now. Kuroo had never put distance between them like this, he’d never turned Bokuto away or torn him down— and never in front of the kids. Bokuto didn’t want to think about all the questions Yamaguchi must have had. Kuroo had never been unkind to him before; he’d never so clearly felt hatred for him. They’d never even had a real fight, ever since the first day they met. Bokuto’s heart sank at the realization.

And what was it that Yamaguchi wanted?

He wanted to follow them down Kokoutai; he knew he was fast enough to catch up, but it would lead only to more animosity and he figured that one more cold look from Kuroo would really make him cry this time. He turned away and headed down Furiko, alone, only after staring down Kokoutai for a full minute.

 

~~~

 

Oikawa was alone, closing up the rental shop after a slow day, when he saw a small child pressing his face to the window from the outside.

“Holy  _ shit _ —” Oikawa yelped. He scrambled back behind the boxes he’d been stacking, acutely aware of just how loud he’d been. He poked his head up, and through the darkness saw an adult tugging the child away from the window. “Fuck,” he whispered. Had it not been so dark, Oikawa guessed that he would have handled the situation a little better, but he let himself wait thirty seconds before getting back up, praying the two strangers had left.

“No one has any reason to be here at 11:00 O’clock on a Thursday night—” Oikawa stopped talking to himself when he saw the two still standing there, only now attempting to open the door. “Why the fuck—”

“Oikawa?” The man knocked on the door twice. His voice was muffled; the glass through which he’d spoken was fogged, but Oikawa could make out the telltale tips of blond hair.

“Ukai?” He approached the door slowly. He looked down, to where he held the child’s hand, and met the “SKI SCHOOL” jacket he knew Kuroo’s kids to wear. “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Ukai. Let us in, dipshit.”

Oikawa’s mouth hung open.“You’ve got a kid with you, Keishin, I’d expect a little more self-control.”

“Don’t give a fuck. I could be at home, in my bed, sleeping right now, but instead I’m outside in this ass-cold snow. Let us the fuck in.”

Oikawa let out a snort before he opened the door. “Okay, dickheads. Come right on in.  _ Mi casa es su casa _ . I was just about to close up shop, though, so make it quick.”

The child looked traumatized, and Oikawa kicked himself mentally. “And who’s this?” he asked, crouching down and smiling in repentance for his profanity.

Ukai dusted himself off, paused, then dusted the kid off too. He kicked the door shut behind him, and the bell rang obnoxiously. “This is Yamaguchi Tadashi. He’s one of Kuroo’s kids, and he dragged me here ‘cause there’s a video he wants to show you.”

Oikawa sent Ukai a questioning look. “A what?”

He patted Yamaguchi the head. “I didn’t believe him at first, either, so I made him show me, but he was right about it, man, you wanna see this video. He’s got a good explanation for it and everything. It’s probably more urgent than you think.”

Yamaguchi mustered a smile. He was maybe ten, relatively short, and clutched his only possession, a smartphone, as if his life depended on it. His jacket was the same bright red “SKI SCHOOL” coat that all kids in the program had to wear. Oikawa had seen it before, on Kuroo’s kids and on others, it matched Kuroo’s own exactly aside from the kanji displayed on the back. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of it. “Here, come over and sit down, guys.” He gestured for them to follow him to the couch shoved in the corner. “This better be good.”

Yamaguchi sat practically on Ukai’s lap, wringing his hands and sending Oikawa a flustered look. He looked at Ukai for permission to start. “So there’s this thing,” he said, upon receiving a nod. “Uh, that I found.”

Oikawa realized soon that he was going to have to ask for more, so he shifted closer and offered up a grin. “What’s it about?”

Yamaguchi put his hands out, turning red. “You’re— You’re Oikawa Tooru,” he blurted. “Sorry. I just— You’re Oikawa Tooru.”

Oikawa was taken aback; his grin doubled in size. “Yeah, that’s me.” He pressed a thumb to his chest. “Are you a fan? I have fans?” So far, Ukai’s unexpected visit was turning out surprisingly pleasant. “I didn’t even know I had fans.”

Yamaguchi scratched the back of his neck, looking at the floor. The poor kid was practically sweating. “Yeah, I guess I’m a little bit of a fan.” He looked up, his face a bright shade of red. “Sorry, I just used to watch all your races when I was little, it really made me want to ski, you’re like a huge inspiration to me and all, you’re, like, why I started skiing—”

Oikawa threw his head back, clutching at his chest. He couldn’t keep himself from smiling. “Kid, you’re killing me. I didn’t know I had this kind of impact, that’s— that’s really great to hear.” He ignored the stinging reality that he’d never have that kind of impact again, and instead focused on the fact that this tiny kid was here all star-struck, looking up at him like some sort of god. He knew he didn’t deserve such a thing, but allowed himself to relish in it anyways. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Yamaguchi scrambled to his feet and bowed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, you’re like my hero, you totally got me into skiing, I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t—”

Ukai prodded Yamaguchi in the side. “Remember, Yam, that’s not why we’re here.”

Yamaguchi came to his senses with a start, shaking his head. He scrambled back onto the couch. “Right, so. Uh, I have this video that I saw the other day, and it’s from one of your old races.” He pulled up his phone and glued his eyes to it. “Ah, ‘cause, I found it like a few days ago, ah— I was searching through all the old videos that I could find, just for fun, you know, so I found this one that’s kind of old, I don’t think it ever went on TV, uh, yeah, it’s kinda weird, I know, but I feel like I should maybe show it to you because it might be kind of—”

“Yamaguchi, spit it out. You’re talking way too fast.” Ukai pulled the cigarette from between his lips and frowned.

Yamaguchi sat up straight again in alarm. “Right!’ he squawked. “I found it on this weird website, I dunno, I’d never seen it before, so—”

“Yamaguchi, tell him what race it’s from.”

Oikawa paled instantly at Ukai’s tone.

Yamaguchi paled too. He looked at Oikawa. “I know what you’re thinking— uh, and, you’re right.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “It’s from the bad one.”

A small smile appeared on Oikawa’s lips. “The bad one?”

Yamaguchi’s eyes widened. “It’s from the one where you fell, oh my gosh, I don’t mean to say that your races were bad, they were all good, you’re such a good skier, I didn’t mean to say that at—”

Ukai flicked him in the head. “He knows what you mean, dumbass.”

Oikawa was holding back laughter, his cheeks puffed out and red. “I know which one you’re talking about, it’s okay,” he managed.

Yamaguchi’s mouth hung open. “Oh,” he said, and blinked at Oikawa. “Well, okay. I tried to show it to Kuroo, too, but he wouldn’t listen. Then I tried to show it to Bokuto, but Kuroo wouldn’t let me and he made us all leave.” His face contorted. “Kuroo’s been really mean lately. Well, that’s not the point.” He cleared his throat. “The point is, you know how you got pushed and everything at that one race, I mean, we all kind of know about it, where Kuroo ran into you and your knee got hit, and you can’t really do races so much anymore because of it, and he says that it’s his fault that your knee is bad, but them he gets this sour look on his face all the time whenever one of us brings it up, so I dunno really what happened, but—”

“That’s enough, Yamaguchi.” Ukai read the look on Oikawa’s face and shut the kid up. “He knows what the hell happened at the race, he was there.”

Oikawa, stock still, nodded. “It’s okay, I know.” There was a searing hole in his gut.

Yamaguchi grew only more alarmed-looking. “Okay, well, so, Kuroo wouldn’t listen, so I made Ukai come and take me here so I could show you.” Blushing, he ducked his head and held out his phone for Oikawa to take. “I hope you know I don’t want to hurt your feelings by showing you this, it’s just important for you to see.”

Yamaguchi’s thoughtfulness startled Oikawa. On the screen, ready to be played, was a foggy, low-resolution drone video of the circuit race that had ended Oikawa’s career. It was paused above the junction of Paradise and Merchen, he could tell, with a few blurry figures shrouded beneath a cloud of snow. He’d seen this type of video before, of other races and other competitions, but never the one from this race. Often his manager would show these kinds of videos to him to prepare him for races against skiers he’d never competed against before—skiers like Kuroo that relied on a specific gimmick to win races that needed to be known beforehand; he’d never looked at race videos unless asked to. He didn’t think a video had even been taken for this race.

He probably should have known there was one. Of course, no one had ever shown it to him before—people typically avoided bringing up the accident at all, god forbid actual video footage of it. He wondered briefly if Kuroo had seen it.

“Has Kuroo seen this? And why are you showing me?” He didn’t mean to scare the child, but a realization had struck him. Was there something in the video Oikawa didn’t already know? He’d been there, in the race, experiencing first-hand, he couldn’t imagine having any great awakening upon seeing a video of it—in fact, he wanted to avoid exposure to it as much as possible. He put the phone down, the video unplayed. “I don’t see the point.”

Yamaguchi’s eyes widened. “No, see, I tried to show Kuroo, but he wouldn’t watch it for whatever reason, he got all mean about it. I figured it was because he still blames himself for the thing that happened. I didn’t really know what happened until I saw this thing, and I’m sorry about it. You’ve got to watch it, though, it’s no use explaining it in words. I promise there’s a point.”

Oikawa’s ears rang at Yamaguchi’s words. He looked up to Ukai for confirmation that the kid wasn’t spewing misinformation.

Ukai sucked on his cigarette and nodded, solemn. He puffed out smoke, violating shop rules but certainly not motivating Oikawa enough to kick him out. “Watch the video, Tooru.”

_ Tooru. _ Oikawa’s gut twisted. Ukai didn’t even know him that well; he’d been Kuroo’s coach when they were racers and now held a position at lodge management, with no natural affiliation to Oikawa’s rental store—using Oikawa’s given name was indicative of a serious situation.

The video was thirty seconds long, Oikawa discovered, and incredibly poor quality. He watched it in silence. Neither Yamaguchi or Ukai looked at him.

On the day it was taken the weather had been hot, and the snow half-melted on the lower half of the mountain. They’d blown snow onto the race route all morning in preparation for the afternoon, and kept the blowers going during the race to ensure fresh powder conditions for each lap. Oikawa remembered it all vividly. The only skiers that day that had worn jackets were the ones with sponsors’ labels on them, contractually obligated to wear them for each race; Oikawa, Kuroo, and Ushijima had been among them. Oikawa had worn leggings, Kuroo, jeans. It had been peculiar circumstances for such an important race--normally the weather forecast was checked in advance and the race moved if need be, but it was late in the 2013 season and there were few cold days left, so the race had to go on.

Oikawa realized that he remembered probably a little too much about the race.

The video brought a lot of it back to him. A few of the mountain routes had changed in the years since, and the trails used in this particular circuit weren’t used in racing anymore; not that the racing community at Niseko was particularly active--Oikawa knew his accident had something to do with it. The video buffered. There were three jackets visible beneath the fog of snow, a purple one, a blue one, and an indistinct green blur. Oikawa knew the purple one to be Ushijima. He knew the blue one had to be someone else, he’d been far ahead of the pack by the time they came out of Merchen, with Kuroo trailing and Ushijima behind him.

It had been a good race, for Oikawa. He’d been buoyed by another sponsorship deal a few days before, the season was coming to a close, and he’d beaten Ushijima for the first time ever in the previous month. He’d been in the local paper. He looked back on it now as the height of his career; the upward spiral that would have taken him past Kuroo and Ushijima, the payoff for his dedication, a potential spot on the Olympic team and the realization of his ultimate goal.

He’d been predicted to win this race, and he’d gone into it believing it.

He'd beaten Ushijima in the before this one. The thing about beating him was that it was considered dangerous. When he’d talk to his coaches about trying to do it, they’d warn him against it, bring up Kuroo, try to direct him elsewhere. Beating Kuroo was easy. Oikawa was the better skier. Kuroo wouldn’t admit it, and he’d told Bokuto otherwise when they were spelling out their history for him weeks ago, but Oikawa was the better skier. Beating Kuroo wasn’t satisfying enough. Ushijima was this wall, this impossible mountain to summit, the one person keeping Oikawa away from the number-one spot within Niseko’s competitive community. Oikawa had been there first, anyways, and when Ushijima had shown up years ago with his Japan jacket and his team of managers Oikawa had been expected to step aside, to give way to the new king of the hill. That’s all that it really was, a fucking mountain, a hill, and people were just trying to get down it faster than everyone else. Oikawa wanted his throne back.

That’s what made it so complicated, when it happened. Ushijima being number-one was this status quo, this law that people didn’t defy, he was the unsinkable Titanic that everyone could rely on, and Oikawa in beating him had become the iceberg. Oikawa had gone against his coaches’ wishes in pushing himself to do it. It wasn’t that Oikawa couldn’t do it, because he could, and he did--with stupid amounts of training and preparation. He wasn’t gifted with strength and speed like Ushijima, and he wasn’t clever or sneaky enough to pull off the stunts Kuroo did, but he figured he worked harder than the two of them put together. That was his edge: pain tolerance and dedication.

Oikawa’s coaches had feared for him not in getting physically hurt, but in the ridicule he’d face if he won. People loved Ushijima. He was good for the community, and he worked perfectly as the face of Niseko--he didn’t say stupid things publicly. He didn’t say much of anything at all publicly. Oikawa and Kuroo, when they’d been at the top of the pyramid and the poster-children for the competitive scene, had been two stupid, young, boisterous teenagers who went and did all sorts of stupid public things and made Niskeo look bad. Kuroo drank underage and Oikawa was notoriously antagonistic towards anyone with more natural talent than him. It wasn’t just Ushijima’s team of managers, coaches, and sponsors that were happy to keep Ushijima on top, it was the mountain itself.

Oikawa beat him in a six-lap circuit race through Center and Super for the first three laps, and through Miharashi and Holiday for the last three. It was like any other mid-season circuit race: well-attended, well-prepared-for on all accounts, and incredibly hectic once the bomb dropped that Oikawa won the thing. There weren’t any obscure circumstances that could have accounted for it, and people couldn’t come up with any excuses for Ushijima--the conditions had been perfect, Ushijima wasn’t sick, or injured, or coming off of a long streak of races, or in poor shape.

Oikawa simply beat him.

Everyone treated it like it was earth-shattering. Like Oikawa was David and Ushijima Goliath, except this time most people were on Goliath’s side. The details of the race itself didn’t even really matter, the entire focus was on the result. Some called it unfair, some didn’t believe it, and Oikawa couldn’t count how many times he was accused of cheating or using drugs. It was only until drone footage of the race was released and reviewed that Oikawa’s victory was considered legitimate. Oikawa was glad to remind people that he, too, had once been the king of the proverbial hill, and that the position was still well within his grasp. The community, really, was a lot easier to deal with than Ushijima’s People.

“Ushijima’s People” referred to his team of managers, coaches, personal trainers, nutritionists, and sponsors. It was a derogatory term coined by Kuroo during the height of The Ushijima Dynasty (another derogatory term, also coined by Kuroo, to refer to Ushijima’s two-season undefeated streak at Niskeo) in response to one of Ushijima’s coaches referring to Kuroo’s own group of helpers as “the ones who enable the delinquent.” Kuroo went on to confirm that they were most certainly enabling his delinquency, by scratching little drawings of dicks into the coach’s car with his house key and kicking in its headlights. Since he was a minor at the time, they couldn’t sue. Both terms were still in use.

Post-race, and to the best of their ability, Ushijima’s People made Oikawa’s life a living hell. It went without saying that they all thought Oikawa had cheated--the concept of Ushijima losing was beyond their grasp. To them, Ushijima was still the unbeatable, unsinkable, untouchable Goliath that had brought in so much money for them. Oikawa was threatening that: he was threatening their money, their image, the community’s stability, and their precious Ushijima’s undefeated streak. Oikawa understood and accepted that Ushijima’s People hated him, and would harass him and his own coaches until the day they retired--Oikawa was often amused by it. 

What Oikawa didn’t understand, until now, was that Ushijima hated him, too.

The video Yamaguchi had given him of “the bad race” was poor quality. It was remote-controlled drone footage, after all, which was never good to begin with, and it had been taken on misty day with snowblowers covering up most of the trails with their clouds of white. The video was trimmed to start where Ushijima and the pack behind him entered Merchen, with Kuroo just ahead of him and Oikawa already nearing the junction with Challenge. It was mere seconds before the accident; Oikawa felt sick to his stomach reliving it. Ushijima’s purple coat stuck out, as did Kuroo’s black one, and Oikawa could see that Ushijima was gaining on Kuroo the closer they got to Challenge. He could see his own blue coat trailing ahead, dipping in and out of the camera’s view.

It should only take moments. Everything made sense, and everything complied with what both Kuroo and Oikawa knew about the accident. Kuroo would get closer to Oikawa once they passed the junction, he’d fly beneath one of the snowblowers carelessly, his goggles would glaze over with ice and he’d realize suddenly that Ushijima was right behind him and end up slamming into Oikawa’s right side, blind and unaware until it was too late. 

Oikawa would tumble into the woods, Kuroo would get up and continue, but Ushijima would pass the finish line by the time Kuroo made it halfway down Challenge and Kuroo would go back for Oikawa. The first gesture of kindness between them, and it was because Oikawa’s knee was broken. By Kuroo.

That was wrong.

Oikawa had to pause and rewind a few times to see it, but beneath the fog of the snowblower, there were two specks of color, not one.

One was purple, and the other was black. They were right in a row, the black one in front. Oikawa’s blue jacket, just emerging from the cloud and easier to see, was to their left and near the woods. The right angle for Kuroo to hit him. They all went at dangerous speed.

The two specks of color turned into the blurry figures of Ushijima and Kuroo once they came out of the snowblower’s range. Ushijima was less than a meter behind Kuroo, both skis placed to Kuroo’s right. Kuroo, presumably blinded now by the ice caked onto his goggles, had no idea how close he really was.

Every time Kuroo described the accident, he said something like “I felt Ushijima behind me, and then I hit Oikawa,” or “I noticed his presence, and then it all happened.” They’d told and retold the story a few times before, and every time Kuroo said it, Oikawa always wondered what it meant.

Now he knew.

Ushijima’s left hand extended--or it was already extended by the time they emerged from the cloud of snow, Oikawa couldn’t tell--and latched onto Kuroo’s right shoulder. The few blurry purple pixels showed Ushijima bending his his elbow, pulling Kuroo closer for a split second, and then shoving him to the left violently. It was fast enough and forceful enough that the camera had barely caught it, and Oikawa immediately understood why Kuroo might not have noticed it. He replayed it over and over, the phone screen centimeters from his face.

Ushijima was at the perfect angle to throw Kuroo into Oikawa. Kuroo didn’t so much get thrown or tipped over as his trajectory altered; he’d been facing forward and was now pointed at Oikawa, his momentum preserved and his stance still crouched. He was crouched enough to slam into Oikawa’s knee directly, the left side of his torso connecting with hiss leg and sending the both of them into the woods. Ushijima kept on skiing,

Oikawa had never thought of Ushijima as a feeling person. 

Ushijima was a machine, the product of the team behind him and the relentless, almost inhuman force that had kept Oikawa fighting for so many years. Kuroo, for example, was a feeling person; where he and Oikawa were all feeling and anger and love for the sport and the community, Ushijima simply skied, no connotations. That’s all that Ushijima did, because he didn’t seem to have the capacity for anything else. His personality was his bluntness. His feelings seemed not to manifest. Every desire within him was tied to the sport. He didn’t think about anything but skiing, and “skiing” never included the people he competed against. He had never cared about Oikawa or Kuroo enough to want to hurt them. He’d never known Oikawa or Kuroo well enough to even converse with them. Oikawa, as a person, had never mattered to him at all. Oikawa’s personality and interests and goals had never affected him. There was no potential for personal hatred there; Ushijima seemed to have no love and no anger in his body, only skiing.

And that’s what shocked Oikawa the most. Ushijima was deliberate and precise in his maiming, something Oikawa didn’t even know he was capable of. He didn’t know that Ushijima even understood emotion on a deep enough level, or experienced emotion on a deep enough level, to do something so calculated and vicious. He injured Oikawa on purpose, because he felt something.

This all was assuming that it was of his own volition, but Oikawa knew that Ushijima’s dedication to the sport came with equal dedication to the rules, and that cheating, in his mind, was wholly inexcusable, borderline incomprehensible. His coaches could not have convinced him to hurt Oikawa. Ushijima would only break the rules because he felt something overpowering, something that mattered more than keeping the sport clean, and the only thing Oikawa could come up with that could overwhelm Ushijima’s conscience so absolutely was hatred.

Hatred for winning. Hatred for beating him at the only thing he was good at. Hatred for embarrassing him. Hatred for taking back Niskeo’s throne.

Ushijima must have done it because he hated him, and that was among the most disturbing things Oikawa had ever heard.

Not only this, but the thought that Kuroo wasn’t the one to blame hit him like a truck. Oikawa had spent the past two years of his life learning to forgive Kuroo, learning to love him despite their past, and make due with his circumstances--circumstances he’d always known to be caused by Kuroo. For years, he’d dealt with his boyfriend being the one who had crippled him. For years, he’d been forcing himself to bottle up of every ounce of anger he felt, because hating Kuroo for the accident and loving him as a person at the same time wasn’t feasible. All this time, Oikawa had known  _ Kuroo _ as the one who’d done it to him. He’d known  _ Kuroo _ to be the one to end his career, take away his passion. All this time, he’d been struggling to forgive him for it and living a miserable life because of it.

But Kuroo wasn’t the one to blame. It was Ushijima. 

All this time, it had been Ushijima. And all this time, Oikawa had blamed Kuroo and Kuroo had blamed himself.

That, too, sent chills down Oikawa’s spine. Oikawa had anger associated with the accident, and pain, but Kuroo had guilt. For the last two years, Kuroo had been dealing with the guilt of ending his boyfriend’s career. Oikawa couldn’t imagine how bad he’d felt--and how bad he still must feel, considering the fact that they were now broken up because of it.

But the reality was that Kuroo was only the tool used to cause the accident. Ushijima hadn’t intended to hurt Kuroo, and he didn’t hurt him, because Kuroo hadn’t put himself in a position to be hated. Kuroo was simply the middle man, the means by which Ushijima could exact revenge, hardly a part of the equation. If someone else had been lined up to hit Oikawa, Ushijima would have used them instead. At the thought, Oikawa was almost glad it had been Kuroo--if it had been someone else, would he have fallen in love with them? He doubted it.

Ushijima had done Oikawa a favor in bringing the two of them together, but he’d still broken Oikawa’s leg. Moreover, he’d riddled Kuroo with guilt--he’d  _ set up _ Oikawa to blame Kuroo for it. He’d avoided all responsibility and made Kuroo the culprit. It wasn’t Kuroo’s fault.

It wasn’t Kuroo’s fault.

“Yamaguchi,” Oikawa said. He wiped tears from his eyes. “I want to thank you.” He passed him the phone, the video still playing. “You’ve done a big favor for me today.”

The child met his gaze, starry-eyed and jittery. “What, why are you—” He stared down at his lap. “You’re welcome.”

Behind him, Ukai nodded slowly, approvingly. Oikawa felt his chest constrict; he suspected that Ukai would try and stop him from doing what he was about to do.

Oikawa took in a breath. He thought of blistering pain of the accident, the months in the hospital; he thought of Kuroo’s initial remorse and desperation, the mere days it took for them to connect; he thought of Kuroo’s two years of guilt, his own two years of repressed anger; he thought of Ushijima’s comment those days ago: _ ”I hope to see you in the race on Friday.” _

Oikawa lifted his chin, let out the breath he’d been holding.

“I’m going to enter the race tomorrow,” he said. “I need to beat Ushijima one more time.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hooooo i got a lot of questions about when this update was coming after that last cliffhanger. here she is! if you're reading updates as i post, it might be a good idea to go back to chapter 10 to remind urself what tf is going on
> 
> i am... slaving away at the last chapter yet, but next week on thursday at this time the whole fic will be done and posted! (aside from a short epilogue, but i plan on taking a break before that goes up o///o)
> 
> this isn't a very long update, but you'll have to forgive me: it's the calm before the storm. not because it's calm, but because the next update will be a long, long storm.
> 
> enjoy ch 11!

At the mention of Ushijima. Bokuto flipped the fuck out, but then swore that if Oikawa was stupid enough to race against him, then he was stupid enough to do it with him.

Oikawa appreciated the sentiment.

They went to the registration office at 6 A.M. together to beat the rush, barely dressed, Oikawa having abducted and appropriated Bokuto’s jacket the moment they left the apartment. Bokuto didn’t mention Oikawa’s knee; Oikawa didn’t know how to feel about it as he, too, was ignoring the knee issue. He wondered if Bokuto had forgotten about his knee altogether, but upon recalling the hysterical post-threesome episode that had first introduced Bokuto to Oikawa’s circumstance he dropped the issue. No one could have forgotten that, not even Bokuto. He would let it sort itself out.

Yaku, 6:08 A.M., showing up late to his shift at mountain management, greeted them with a grimmace and an “I’m not going to ask.” Oikawa figured he was referring to their appearance.

“The race tonight?” Yaku poked at his keyboard lazily. They hadn’t bothered to turn the lights on, and the dull glow of the computer highlighted his dark circles. Probably a night on the town.  _ With Kuroo, _ Oikawa thought.  _ Probably with Kuroo. _

He shot Oikawa a knowing look. “I can sign you guys up. There are a few spots left. It’ll be vicious, though, you guys know Ushijima’s coming back, right?” He said it carefully.

Oikawa knew what he was doing, and he smiled and nodded with an equally calculated response. “We’re aware.” He tugged on Bokuto’s hand below where Yaku could see. Yaku was right in being suspicious, but Oikawa couldn’t bring himself to give in. His knee would be ignored.

“Alright,” Yaku said. He fixed Oikawa another long look, then resigned his gaze to the computer monitor.

Yaku put up less of a fight than Ukai. Ukai, upon hearing Oikawa’s plans to race, had threatened to rip his head off; Yamaguchi’s genuinely terrified screams then put an end to the hate speech. Ukai’s firm and father-like lecture had almost made Oikawa turn back. Oikawa knew he couldn’t be convinced--the moment he saw the video, something in him snapped. He _ had  _ to get back at Ushijima, and he didn’t know any other way to go about it. Standing before the registration counter, now, at ass-o’clock in the morning, Bokuto’s hand in his and an old friend in front of him, he knew he was going to do it. Knee be damned, he was going to do it.

He knew it was incredibly stupid.

Yaku clearly knew it too; despite having directed his attention elsewhere he was still shooting Oikawa a look every once in awhile, the sort of well-meaning “what the hell are you doing?” type of glance common to him and Suga. Oikawa deserved it and ignored it and had received it before. He and Yaku, again, were on rival ski teams in high school and both ended up at Niskeo once they decided to go professional. Yaku dropped out of the competitive route pretty quickly once it became clear he didn’t stand a chance against Ushijima and company, but continued to work at Niseko to keep Kuroo in his peripheral; the two had been classmates in highschool and both came here hating Oikawa. Neither hated him anymore, obviously, but Yaku still remained closer to Kuroo.

Yaku had been there for the accident, had been the first one to notice Kuroo’s absence and the first to see them coming down Challenge--he’d been the one to call the ambulance and even helped Oikawa stay conscious until it arrived. Yaku, who until that point had been entirely one of Kuroo’s People, may well have saved Oikawa’s sorry ass. The incident is what allied them. Oikawa was certain that Yaku remembered it better than just about anyone.

That, perhaps, was why Yaku was now so apprehensive to let Oikawa enter the race. He wasn’t so volatile as Ukai, and too inherently kind to call Oikawa stupid outright, especially in front of Bokuto, but still showed his apprehension and a certain level of disapproval in the continued glances fired Oikawa’s way.

Again, Oikawa deserved it, but he wasn’t going to let it deter him.

He and Bokuto left five minutes later, hand in hand, both seemingly buoyed by the prospect of a race and leaving a bewildered but compliant Yaku in their wake. Oikawa forced his composure. He was certain Bokuto had a million questions for him, and to the same extent Oikawa probably had a million questions for himself, but he was too far in at this point and re-evaluating his decisions had no appeal. They were going to do it: they were going to race. Oikawa was going to break out his skiing gear for the first time in two years and use it in a race. The prospect sent him reeling.

Bokuto, in some convoluted and tired form of celebration, pulled Oikawa against him and sealed their mouths together the moment they were back indoors. Oikawa wondered momentarily if it was because Bokuto thought that he was going to die, and he needed to make out with him as much as possible before the time came. It was a stupid thought. Oikawa kissed him harder.

A more coherent thought came to Oikawa next: Ushijima was going to get his wish--he’d be seeing Oikawa in the race on Friday. Oikawa figured he could at least give him a good show.

 

~~~

 

Kuroo had high concentrations of two things in his body: coffee, and regret. The first was  being forcefed to him by Suga, the second was courtesy of Oikawa and Bokuto.

He didn’t want to get into it, and here was Suga, getting him into it.

“Too long, Kuroo, three days is too long.” Suga’s voice was something like a whine. “The boys will be disappointed tomorrow if they have a substitute, you know that. If you can’t get up for you, get up for them.”

“I am an ass fuck,” Kuroo said, and threw a pillow across the room. “A real-ass ass fuck. A certified one. Can’t be a ski instructor anymore, nope. Get off of me, Suga.”

Suga was quiet. “I don’t know what that means, but you’re doing well in convincing me that my intervention was necessary. I got you donuts, too, and you might have noticed them by now if you opened your eyes properly.” Suga was sitting on his legs over the covers of the bed, cross-legged and cutting off the circulation to his feet. Kuroo couldn’t see him, but he smelled coffee and donuts--two things already associated with Suga.

He decided that he couldn’t fight any longer; he picked his head up and off the pillow and reached out blindly for a donut. He did not receive one.

“Open your eyes first.”

“No.”

“No donut.”

“Fuck.”

“Get up.”

“No.”

“No donut.” Kuroo heard him eating one.

“Piss off, Koushi.”

Suga sighed wistfully. “I suppose… I’ll have to eat all of these by myself. What a shame.” He got off Kuroo’s legs, Kuroo heard his feet padding towards the door. “It was a nice chat, love.”

Kuroo could hear him opening the door; he knew Suga would commit to this act long enough to get into the hallway, but not actually leave. He pried his eyes open.“Suga, pleeease. Help me. I’m so tired, and so sad. And you’re so nice.”

“What was that?”

Kuroo whined louder. “Come and comfort me. Pleeease? I’ll beg if I need to.”

Suga stopped with the door half-open. His gaze was suddenly cold, his voice set to match. “If you really want me to stay and coddle you, Kuroo, you’re going to have to get your act together. My patience is extensive, but not infinite. I’m not your mom. You treat me that way, but I’m not.”

Kuroo startled at his words. The room felt tense. Suga, sugary-sweet exterior and all, had a will of iron and a commanding emotional presence that he couldn’t bring himself to question. Kuroo had heard that tone of voice before. Even Oikawa, authoritarian in nature to the point of being downright manipulative, couldn’t replicate the force of Suga’s anger. He wasn’t even angry. He was just disappointed, and that was worse.

“I’m sorry, Suga.” He blinked the sleep out of his eyes. “I’m sorry I’m a piece of shit. Please come back inside. I’m sorry I said that.”

Suga frowned. “Don’t demean yourself. And it wasn’t anything you said, it was your attitude. I left a donut on your nightstand. Eat it.” He shut the door and approached the bed again. “I came here to actually talk to you about something, you know, but discovering you like this set me off.”

Kuroo jutted his bottom lip out. He held the donut gingerly between his fingers, tried not to get any of it on his sheets. “Discovering me like what?”

Suga’s frown had yet to relax. “Like this.” He gestured at the room in general. “On your sorry ass in bed, at what—” He looked at his watch. “Seven o’clock in the evening, half asleep and still moping about something that happened a month ago.”

Kuroo immediately began to protest. “My boyfriend of two years went and broke up with—”

“I don’t give a fuck about Oikawa, I only—”

“That’s a lie.”

Suga pointed a finger at him. “I care about Oikawa as a person, but in the context of your health, right now he’s irrelevant. There are important things going on, and I can’t begin to tell you until you fix your attitude and get up. I’m so sick of waking you up, Kuroo, _god_.” He tipped his head back and groaned, loud. “I’m not your fucking mom. I’ve had to do it too many times.”

Kuroo’s guts contorted at Suga’s words; he didn’t mean to take advantage of him. There was little else needed to get him out of bed. “I’m sorry, Suga,” he mumbled, pulling on a pair of boxers in shame. “I know I’m a pain in the ass.”

Suga lifted an eyebrow. “That counts as moping, Kuroo, and I’ll leave if you don’t stop.”

Kuroo shot upright. “Right, right.” He didn’t want Suga to leave--he had things he needed to do and he trusted no one else to get him out of this funk. “Thank you, though, for putting up with me. You take a lot of shit.”

A small smile appeared on his lips. Kuroo knew saying it would please him. “No kidding. Now put on a shirt. We need to talk.”

Kuroo got up and got his act together faster than he knew himself to be capable. Maybe it was Suga, there, sitting on the edge of the bed with his legs crossed and a glint in his eye sending him the incentive he needed. He’d been in a lull for three days, ever since the encounter with Bokuto on the mountain: he hated that he’d been so cold. In the moment, it had felt right. He’d felt defensive and angry and still numb to the reality of the situation, having not seen Bokuto nor Oikawa in several weeks. Seeing them, though, made them too real to hate. Too tangible.

He had yet to tell Suga about it, but he figured Suga already had some idea. He was downright embarrassed about what happened, but Suga was more than capable of coaxing a story out of him and Kuroo was certain that was what he came here for; some part of him was glad. The donuts-and-coffee parade was always welcome at his apartment.

Suga sat him down on the opposite side of the bed, mug still in hand. “I know that something’s up with you, and I know that it has to do with the dastardly duo.”

Kuroo gaped like a fish. “The dastardly duo?” He had yet to brush his teeth; he shut his mouth.

“You know who I’m talking about. Oikawa and Bokuto. I didn’t want to say their names and make you sad.”

Kuroo’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t have to dance around them. I’ve been thinking about them for the past several days, talking about them isn’t any different.”

Suga’s expression softened. “Alright, well, I came here to tell you about something, but if you need to let it all out, then that’s okay.”

“I thought you didn’t want to hear me mope. I don’t want to like… use you, Suga.”

“When I  _ offer _ my condolences, it’s not ‘using’ me--and moping and releasing emotions aren’t the same thing. The latter is productive.”

Kuroo frowned at the realization. “It was just some... thing with Bokuto. I ran into him on the mountain with the kids, and I was a total dick to him, and I feel bad about it, and the kids are all disappointed. Tsuki bugged me about it and tried to get the truth out of me, ‘cause they could all tell something was up between the two of us. I feel shitty for the whole thing. I don’t think I can face the kids again. Tsuki’s gonna get it out of me.”

Suga blinked. “What, was this the first time you’ve seen Bokuto since the breakup? Don’t you normally see him on the mountain?”

Kuroo stiffened and nodded. “Well, I normally do, we meet up and ski with the kids together, but he’s been avoiding me, I haven’t seen him up there in weeks. I think he and Oikawa are really dating now, too.” He met Suga’s eyes suddenly. “You would know that, wouldn’t you? You still see them.”

Suga pursed his lips. “I do,” he said slowly. “I’m not a messenger, though, and I won’t be treated as one. Your business is no longer their business.”

Kuroo’s chest constricted. “That’s mean, Suga, I still like them. I miss them. I don’t want to lose them.”

Suga shut his eyes. He waited before speaking. “I know, and I can see why you feel so sad about it. This situation is a result of your actions, however, and you’re the one paying for it.”

Kuroo protested, and Suga was ready for it. “But Oikawa blamed—”

“You should not have raced Bokuto.”

Kuroo didn’t speak. The back of his neck was on fire, something blurring his vision. “Please just tell me whatever you came here to tell me.”

Suga swallowed, then nodded. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel worse. I don’t know if this next thing is going to make this any better.”

“You’re right, though, I shouldn’t have raced him. Just get on with whatever it is.”

Suga’s gaze hardened. “I won’t be pushed around.”

Kuroo tried not to groan. “Please, just— I’m dying. Please? What do I have to say to get you to tell me?”

“It’s about Oikawa.”

“That’s fine. Oikawa’s fine, I can handle Oikawa talk,” he lied.

Suga exhaled. “You’re going to freak out a little when I tell you this, and I freaked out a little too. I ask that you stay calm and seated until I finish the story.”

Kuroo’s blinked. He nodded and rooted himself to his seat. “Alright. Uh, I’m ready, I guess.”

“The circuit race is tonight, if you remember.”

“The one with Ushijima? The one you gave me the flier for? Like, ages ago?”

“Yeah, it’s tonight. It’s starting in a half hour, actually, at eight o’clock. I didn’t expect to come over here this late. Ushijima showed up at the mountain a few weeks ago to prepare, I dunno if you’ve seen him.”

“I haven’t.”

“Well he’s here, and he’s still terrifying. He’s going to win, obviously.”

Kuroo smirked. “I’m glad to know that some things haven’t changed.”

“I don’t think he remembers any of us, except for Oikawa. He definitely remembers Oikawa. And that’s the thing, uh.” Suga stared down at the bed and rubbed his nose. “I don’t know how to drop the bomb without you flipping out on me.”

Kuroo’s mouth was agape. “I think I know.”

Suga met his gaze, dead serious. “Do you?”

“Are Ushijima and Oikawa a thing now?”

Suga had to take a moment to register what he said, and then started spluttering in laughter. “No, no, oh my god. They’re definitely not a thing. You couldn’t pay Oikawa to touch him. That’s not it at all.”

Kuroo seemed to relax. “That’s good. Then what is it?”

Suga shook his head, still anxious. “I don’t know how to tell you. You need to swear to keep it together once I do.”

Kuroo balled his fists in the sheets, frowning. “What is it, man? You’ve got me freaked out a little already.”

Suga took several calming breaths. He kept his eyes shut. “I’m going to say it without context, just to get it out, and then if you’re still collected enough to listen, I’ll tell you why it’s happening.”

“Please just spit it out. It can’t be that bad. I already know It’s about Oikawa, so I’m—”

_ “Oikawa’senteringtherace—”  _ Suga blurted it out all at once, words run together until they were indecipherable.

Kuroo leaned in. “What?”

Suga yelped, eyes wide. “You didn’t hear?”

“No.”

“Oikawa’s entering… the race.” It sounded as if every word pained him.

Kuroo froze, one eyebrow arched, until it dawned on him. “Oikawa’s in the fucking race? Oikawa entered this race? What?”

Suga clutched his coffee mug to his chest. “Yeah. He’s gonna be in the race tonight.”

“What the fuck? He can’t do that! Who told you this? He’s not. He can’t.”

Suga nodded. “Yaku told me. I’m one-hundred percent sure he’s actually doing it.”

“He can’t! What the fuck? He literally can’t, he’s not capable. What the fuck does he think he’s doing? He’s going to fucking destroy his knee! Has his knee gotten better or something?”

Suga shook his head, meek. “As far as I know, no. Yaku told me this afternoon. Apparently Oikawa and Bokuto showed up at like six A.M. this morning, last minute, to get into the race. Yaku has no idea what Oikawa’s thinking. I think it has something to do with Ushijima.”

“Oikawa can’t do this! He literally can’t do this! I don’t care if he wants to, like, prove something to Ushijima, he’s going to kill himself. Oikawa can’t ski without putting his knee at risk. What the fuck does he think he’s doing? He literally can’t race.”

“I don’t— I don’t know. I heard about it too late to stop him, he’s already on the mountain, I bet. I would have gone and stopped him if I could. I decided to come check on you instead.”

“He never learns. The stupid bastard never learns. He’s too fucking proud for his own good.” Kuroo got up, shaking his head. “I have to stop him. I’ll crash the race if I have to. I can’t believe Bokuto’s letting him do this.” He stared at Suga. “Bokuto knows about his knee, right?”

Suga nodded.

“And you! You’re letting him do this! Why the fuck has everyone let him enter this race? Do people not realize how bad his knee actually is?”

“Kuroo, I don’t think  _ he _ realizes how bad his knee actually is.”

“I think he does, and that he just doesn’t care. He’s so fucking reckless, god. The bastard. The proud, stupid bastard. I can’t believe he’s doing this to himself. I’ve gotta go crash the race. Nice chat, Suga.” Kuroo was already halfway to the door, collecting his things. “Gotta go stop my ex-boyfriend from maiming himself.”

“Kuroo, wait.” Suga set down his mug and reached out. “You can’t just show up at the race, love, you can’t go and ruin the event on the off chance that you’ll be able to stop him.”

Kuroo looked up accusingly from where he was pulling on his pants. “What am I supposed to do? Let him break his fucking leg?”

Suga sat back. “I don’t know, Kuroo. I feel like interfering will only make things worse. He might hurt himself more, you know how he is. I’d rather let it just play out and not take the risk of him lashing out.”

“I don’t care if he hates me after this--he already does. I can’t sit back and watch him do this. It’s everything I’ve ever feared he’d do. He’s gonna fucking kill himself, Suga, he might actually die.”

Suga went quiet, retracting his hand and his objection. “Don’t make things worse, Kuroo, he’s got a bad leg, but he can still throw a punch. He’s still mad at you, remember that.”

Kuroo stood up straight, voice almost hopeful. “Is that you giving me permission?”

“It’s me not telling you no. Go stop him from racing, if you feel like that’s what you need to do.”

Kuroo wanted to salute him. “I’ll stop him, don’t you worry.”

When Suga had heard the news from Yaku, he hadn’t known what to do. He’d been planning to go talk to Kuroo--Bokuto expressed concern for him in private and Suga was eager to investigate--but Oikawa’s plans hung him up. It wasn’t out of Suga’s power to stop him, but hearing that Ukai had been unsuccessful in doing so made him hesitant. Knowing Oikawa as intimately and for as long as Suga had, he understood that Oikawa’s pride and determination went hand-in-hand with his lack of self-preservation instincts. Oikawa’s chief beauty was not his serenity. He wondered if stopping him would be worth it--Oikawa was nearly bound to become angry and violent, and was likely in denial of his incapability to ski. Even if Suga coaxed his motives out of him, there was little he could do to soothe him if his anger spurred from Ushijima. Maybe it was the comment Ushijima made at the rental shop those days ago. Suga wouldn’t have been surprised if it were. Whatever it was, Suga knew, without even talking to him, that Oikawa was dead-set on skiing in the race.

That was probably why he went to Kuroo. He knew that Oikawa had to be stopped, and where Suga was cautious and enduring, Kuroo would fight back no matter the circumstances. Kuroo would go and pluck him off the mountain if need be. He’d hold up traffic, break into a building, shoot someone if he thought it would stop Oikawa from getting hurt. That was Kuroo’s chief beauty, and it was the only one Suga knew that could contest Oikawa’s in potency.

Suga said, “I’ll be worrying anyways.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been talking a lot about chapter twelve, and now i regret that a little, because i had to cut the chapter in two.
> 
> i can't bring myself to publish a twenty thousand word chapter. forgive me, please. this thing is a beast.
> 
> i feel REALLY sorry for doing this since i've promised you all to wrap things up here, but on top of length, my kudos and hits spike every time i update because we get put at the top of the "recently updated" list, so it benefits me in that way too. i'm a little desperate to reach 2k hits/200 kudos by the last update, and this will help
> 
> this last stretch been SO hard to write, dear god, but that probably because it's the most emotional and intense part--and that means i get to read lots of juicy comments. (also because finals are this (this) far away, but who cares about school? //nervous laughter)
> 
> a lot of what happens in this chapter has to do with the layout of the actual, real-life mountain at which KTSWG takes place. it's niseko mountain, the largest ski resort in japan.
> 
> HERE is the map that i've used as reference: http://hurryslowly.com.au/images/trail-map.jpg
> 
> i recommend opening that sucker up in another tab and seeing if you can follow along as i describe things. all the trails i've mentioned are real, and i'd like to thing all the scenarios i conjure are possible, from what information i've gathered about the mountain and the conditions. obviously, the racing is made up and for the sake of plot, but niskeo itself and the rental shop where oikawa works are real!
> 
> ch13 will be next week, thursday, same time. and THEN we're done ;]
> 
> enjoy ch 12!!!

Either most people had forgotten, or they were pretending.

Nobody really thought his leg was healed, right? It had been on the local news. Everyone had seen how bad it was. It was a terminal injury, if that were even a thing. It wasn’t going to kill him, but it was forever. Oikawa Tooru was never going to ski again.

Well, he was: he was going to ski in a few minutes, but it didn’t mean that he should.

He’d regretted it the moment he put his boots back on. Bokuto stuck with him, stoically, staying quiet on the way to the mountain and giving him physical support when he needed it. 

(Bokuto was rarely ever quiet; he was not even quiet when he slept. Silence from Bokuto was like screaming from other people--attention-grabbing. His sobriety set Oikawa on edge.) In truth, Oikawa was pissed that Bokuto was enabling him, and yet he knew he would be equally pissed if Bokuto tried to stop him. An impasse. He wanted to kick himself.

There was no way for Oikawa to back out of the race. Everyone had gathered at the mountain’s peak lodge, competitors and their teams claiming tables and getting set up. Race coordinators ran around, local media was beginning to show up, banners and trail markers were being set out. Some lucky kids had gotten past mountain security and now looked on in awe at the skiers they had seen on TV. 

To Oikawa, it was a vision from the past--it was the sudden and daunting reunion with the memories he’d made in this very same place, preparing to race down the very same mountain, perhaps the very same trails. He hadn’t been up here in years; to get up he’d had to use the chairlift, and even that was hard.

The glory of it was lost on him. The summit lodge had never seemed so dark, the pre-race bustle and chatter never so menacing. He never before looked at his own pair of skis in terror. He tried to imagine how it used to feel--him and his coaches at a table, his stuff all thrown around, studying the route down the mountain and trying to feel out the competition on that day. The buildup to a race had always been exciting, friends around him, supporting him: he used to be  _ good _ at it. He used to be able to look over at Kuroo’s group and sneer, could rely on Ushijima to show up fashionably late and make everyone in the lodge stare. It was Oikawa’s favorite routine.

Now, it seemed, people either didn’t notice him or sent him questioning looks. Some must recognise him and his injury. He had no others around him but Bokuto, no other items but an old gear bag and his skis. He didn’t even have a map of the mountain. He knew the trails for the race, had memorized them on the way up--first three laps were Superstition into Misoshiru, the last three were Shirakaba into Super. He remembered all of them as hard trails, and had heard all would have fresh moguls. He didn’t remember how to to get to them from the summit lodge. He was too ashamed to ask anyone.

Bokuto still sat beside him. Oikawa knew Bokuto would do well. He could imagine him getting second, in which case he would be happy for him; he would support Bokuto if the scene blew up again and he wanted to become a regular. Some still remembered Oikawa’s name, being backed by The Oikawa Tooru would get you popularity and sponsorship offers off the bat. Hell, if Bokuto was good enough, one day he might be able to add his name to the list of those who’ve bested Ushijima. Oikawa would relish in it like nothing else.

That, he reminded himself, was why he was here: to get back at Ushijima. The name had been tossed around the room, whispered between skiers, slipping in and out of Oikawa consciousness since he arrived. Ushijima was omnipotent within the community. Even though he hadn’t raced at Niseko in over a year, he was still the main event. A few men with video cameras continued to hover around the door; he had yet to arrive and it was implied that they were there for him.

“Oikawa?” Ukai’s voice stuck out above the crowd. Oikawa froze. He was coming from behind. “Is that you? Oikawa, you idiot  _ fuck _ —”

Bokuto turned around in his seat before Oikawa did. He immediately placed a hand on Oikawa’s shoulder, a reassurance. “Ukai! Dude, how’s it going?” Bokuto’s cheery tone did a poor job pacifying the man; Ukai only approached faster.

In shock, Oikawa whipped around after him. “Ukai—”

“Oikawa, I told you not to come here.” Ukai was on top of him in an instant, headset torn off his ears and a cigarette dangling from his fingers. He smelled of smoke; he’d likely been here for a few hours, monitoring race setup. Oikawa would not have selected him for such a position. “I told you not to come here, Oikawa. You’re not racing tonight. Gather up your things, I can have you on a chairlift down in five minutes. You’re not racing.”

“Whoah, Ukai, you’re involved with the races here? Cool!” Bokuto was losing his cheer.

Oikawa said, “I’m not leaving—”

The silence that choked the room made Oikawa trail off. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. All three of them followed the eyes of the crowd, Ukai dropping his cigarette and Bokuto his jaw. Oikawa turned around last, predicting who it would be and willing himself not to vomit. He would have rather dealt with Ukai.

Ushijima did not even grant the lodge a “hello,” Oikawa could not tell whether this was because he was oblivious to their stares or because he did not care. The bell attached to the door was not necessary to announce his presence, and it was downright unfitting against the still of the room. His jacket was the same shade of purple. The Japanese flag was still sewn into the right breast. People did not move, some frozen in odd positions with their heads turned to face him.Those standing parted to make way; with his chin lifted and his shoulders back he dwarved them considerably. The ski boots on his feet seemed not to alter his gait, as if he were immune to the awkwardness that all others experienced in wearing them.

He had two coaches trailing behind, one holding a clipboard and both staring bullets into the crowd.  _ You can’t touch him, _ they said. An awestruck little boy carried his gear, and one of his buddies gave him a high five in passing.

Oikawa continued to will himself not to vomit.

Bokuto’s hand returned to his shoulder; people were taking photos of Ushijima now. Ukai was returning to wherever he had come from. Oikawa wanted him to stay, wanted him to get him off this mountain, his fading footsteps marked Oikawa’s ever-growing inability to opt out.

Ushijima passed their table on the way to the back of the lodge. One of his coaches looked Oikawa in the eye. He felt his neck burn. 

The silence did not break for anything. 

Oikawa wanted to fold in on himself and become invisible; the air in the room constricted wherever Ushijima went.

_ Goliath, _ Oikawa thought,  _ and I am but David. _

Bokuto whispered, voice impossibly distant, like light pitched at him through a tunnel: “Are you alright?”

Ushijima had stopped walking, his eyes drilled into the back of Oikawa’s head. Oikawa remained still. 

“Oikawa Tooru,” he said, peeling apart the silence. His words buzzed like radio static in Oikawa’s ears. “You are here.”

Oikawa didn’t say anything. The eyes of the room shifted to him in unison.

“I am surprised to see you here.”

_ Isn’t everyone,  _ some desperate part of him wanted to sneer, but he held his tongue. Ushijima seemed content to speak to the back of his head. 

“I will be glad to see you on the slopes again.”

There was a searing hole in Oikawa’s gut. “Thanks,” he managed. The morbidness behind what Ushijima said would have to be ignored; he listened to the man’s footsteps as they trailed away. The room still stared at him, and he couldn’t bring himself to stare back. Bokuto’s hand returned to his shoulder and squeezed gently.

_ I might die today, _ he thought,  _ and if I do, I may well be at peace with it. _

 

~~~

 

Kuroo had plenty of time to think on the way up the mountain: he decided that if anyone but Ukai had been his coach those years ago, Oikawa would be dead.

It went like this: Kuroo needed to get to the summit, but the race had started three minutes ago and the base of the mountain was roped off to anyone but competitors and those with tickets. (Oikawa, presumably, was skiing right now; the very thought of it sparked a sudden urge in Kuroo to pry open the gondola doors and throw himself off.) Had Kuroo not garnered enough attention--negative or otherwise—in his days of teenage fame/delinquency at Niseko, the security guards at the base wouldn’t have recognised him and let him onto the gondola. Kuroo didn’t know whether to bask in pride or in shame at the fact. 

Ukai had been his enabler, the audacious and habitually chainsmoking father-figure whom had had no reservations when it came to letting Kuroo drink underage and go to clubs. (Kuroo leveraged this endlessly--those years, there was not a weekend all winter in which he didn’t get blackout drunk.) During the winter season, Kuroo’s parents had always passed him over to “the mountain,” meaning Ukai, and let him train and race all season because it brought in money. He dropped out of high school halfway through third year to pursue it further, and at that point his sponsorships alone would have paid for a college education several times over; according to his parents, that was enough evidence to prove that receiving a college education was no longer necessary. Kuroo had relished in it.

It boiled down to this: had Ukai not been neglectful enough to allow a seventeen-year-old Kuroo Tetsurou to go around doing stupid things, getting his name out and his face in the paper, Kuroo would not have been recognised by security and let onto the gondola. Kuroo reminded himself to thank Ukai later, for indirectly saving Oikawa’s ass.

All that was left was to actually save him, and Kuroo didn’t think for a second that it was going to be easy. Suga was right: Oikawa had a bad knee, but he could still throw a punch. Kuroo could only imagine Oikawa’s diametric opposition to being apprehended in this race.  As illogical as Oikawa’s decision was, Kuroo knew he would stick to it no matter the circumstances. That was how Oikawa worked: reckless abandon in everything he did. Kuroo would be lying if he said he didn’t find it attractive.

Though, perhaps not in this circumstance. Kuroo stood and watched through the door as the first racers sped by beneath him. Tentative, he pressed a hand to the glass.

_ Great, _ he thought. A skier in a blue coat went by. Something heavy twisted in his chest. _ Isn’t that just great. _

 

~~~

 

The mountain was not as he remembered it.

Oikawa could recount all the ways in which his knee inhibited him: his lift strength was weakened, he was unable to run long distances, stairs gave him trouble, he was unable to squat weights--skiing, ultimately, was out of the question. The doctors had always made that clear to him, and post-accident, it was the first thing he’d asked about. It was the first thing that mattered.

He hadn’t given serious thought to trying it again--between Kuroo’s remorse about the accident and his own chronic pain, getting back on the slopes seemed like it would cause more problems than it would fix; his desire to do so would have to be hindered in favor of sensibility. He always knew it would hurt him, he always knew it would be dangerous and painful, but he always thought that it would still be fun. He never imagined that he could dislike skiing--even with his bad knee. He was wildly incorrect. 

Whatever enjoyment he would have gotten out of it was whisked away by the pain. The pain was not chronic, and at rest his knee never bothered him, but the moment the skis clicked in he felt something go wrong. Regret sucked the breath out of him.

He started at the back of the pack, and remained there. Bokuto clearly wanted to stay with him, sending him dismayed looks and tugging on his sleeve before the race began. Oikawa shooed him away and hissed an angry: “Actually ski, would you? I’ll be fine.” It was a lie, and Bokuto could clearly tell, but he resigned himself and moved towards the front. Oikawa tried to be happy for him.

He sent wary glances up towards the two camera-bearing drones that would be recording the race. They used to be his friends--the means by which he could watch back his own moments of glory, his sources of information on the other racers. Their distant buzzing now seemed malicious, their unwavering presence hostile. He kept his head ducked.

Aside from Ushijima, no one had acknowledged him. He hadn’t spotted any familiar faces in the crowd—perhaps a few insignificant race-goers from back in the day, but no one relevant to him, and no one good enough to threaten Ushijima’s position.  _ Well, aside from Bokuto,  _ he reminded himself, but the silver-haired snowboarder had long disappeared from his sight. There was little other comfort to be found where he stood, the restless bodies around him and the snow piled up around his skis seemed to stare back at him with an expression more bleak than his own. The throbbing sensation at the pit of his stomach continued to deny him all relief. 

The bang of the starting gun came and went, and before he knew it the mass around him was throwing it’s collective body down the mouth of Superstition, and his muscles and his brain were telling him to follow. He was shaky, incredibly unsteady, the combination of a lack of practice and potent dread having come together in terrible form and rendering him all but useless on his feet. He could barely tell where he was going, there were people up ahead and beside all pushing in, the snow felt slippery and unfamiliar and  _ god,  _ did his right knee hurt. He’d never regretted anything more.

There was not a meter of terrain on Superstition past the mouth that wasn’t cut into moguls. Moguls had been hard, too, before the accident, what with going as fast as one could and the recklessness that came with such a thing--these moguls, now, were twice as unforgiving. They were unnaturally deep, dug into a steep trail, and were covered only by a thin powder. By the third lap, Oikawa imagined, that powder would be gone. Moguls by nature required the use of knees, and not just one of them. Oikawa hugged the treeline as best as he could, where the terrain leveled out slightly and the cuts weren’t so deep.

_ I’m acting like Kuroo, aren’t I? _ He was inches from the woods. He cut a little too close to a tree, wondered briefly if doing this was more dangerous than the moguls. He decided not to find out. 

He was towards the back, those with self-preservation instincts trailed, navigating the sea of bumps with caution enough to expose them as unworthy competitors. There was no chance of winning unless you were willing to risk life and limb; Oikawa had done it, and he’d gotten hurt because of it; Ushijima and Bokuto were presumably doing it right now. Oikawa guessed that the moment the starting gun went off, Bokuto forgot all about him, favoring the opportunity to give Ushijima a run for his money. Oikawa couldn’t blame him. He would have done the same thing.

He, now, found himself wondering what put him here. It was the video Yamaguchi showed him, where it turned out that Ushijima was the one behind the accident--why hadn’t Yamaguchi shown Kuroo instead? Oikawa only got angry upon seeing it; angry enough to drive him to enter a race. What good did entering a race do? He’d planned on beating Ushijima, showing him up and making him regret what he’d done, but by no stretch of the imagination was that realistic and he was currently making an ass of himself in doing it. He saw the few trailing skiers giving him odd looks.

There was a clearer answer, upon seeing the video, but it hadn’t even crossed his mind: he could have taken the video to Kuroo, forced him to watch it and explained everything. Kuroo probably would have cried upon learning that he wasn’t the one behind Oikawa’s injury. They both would have cried. They could have reconciled. Oikawa was just too stubborn too blind with anger to make a rational decision, and now he was paying the price for it.

The heavy, heavy price.

In the stretch between Superstition and Mishoshiru there was a medium-difficulty trail named Jagaimo. It wasn’t particularly steep, it was short, and it wasn’t covered in moguls, but it was icy. Oikawa remembered its notoriety. It took out more people than Supserstition and Misoshiru did: once people got onto it, they didn’t slow down. It was the glorious reprieve between two veritable death traps, and no one expected it to be an obstacle, so they bombed down it. It was most certainly an obstacle, however, and the ice that coated it was often seen too late.

Oikawa, going in, felt he was ready. He remembered the trail. It was a straightaway, he’d managed to avoid the moguls on Superstition almost completely, and skidding over ice shouldn’t be too hard on his knee. He wasn’t even in last place. He crouched forward, tucked his poles under his arms, and for a moment felt entirely alright. Maybe his skiing instincts were coming back to him; maybe he’d catch up.

Maybe he’d finish in a respectable place.

His glimmer of hope was soon smothered; his skis seemed to slip out of control beneath him the moment he entered the trail and whatever traction he had going in soon disappeared. The ice wasn’t the kind of thin, snow-covered patch that could be found on any trail, it was thick, clear, and bare. Oikawa stared down at the foggy blur beneath his skis with a horrified expression. There was virtually no snow on the trail. Race coordinators must have swept off all the snow prior to the race to make it more difficult.

Oikawa thought back to the moguls on Superstition: they were cut deeper than he’d ever seen before, stripped of powder to maneuver on--hell, moguls themselves would never normally be found on a trail as steep as Superstition. Superstition wasn’t even a trail that was normally maintained, it was a double-black-diamond cordoned off more often than not, braved only by reckless teenagers and experienced skiers. The ice on Jagaimo was unnatural as well; normally, if conditions on a trail were ever that bad, it would be shut down.

Oikawa blinked.  _ This isn’t a race course, it’s a fucking death trap. _

To lead into Mishoshiru, Jagaimo narrowed at its end and sloped downwards. Here, the ice disappeared, covered by a thin layer of powder and crooked shadows. There were fewer lights on this part of the trail, but those that shone were half-hidden by the overgrown underbrush. The yellow glow scattered over the trail through the leafless silhouettes of the trees.  _ This part of the mountain is barely maintained _ , Oikawa reminded himself. His right knee continued to ache.

There was a dark spot in the snow, maybe twenty yards down, halfway between where Oikawa was and the head of Mishoshiru. Mishoshiru was something of a cliff, a steep drop down into a J-shape that Oikawa knew would be covered with another round of moguls. He wasn’t looking forward to it. He tried to slow down; skidding into the trail uncontrollably would spell certain peril, but pressing on his right side was a mistake and he found himself skidding over the dark spot in the snow before he could turn away.

A dark patch meant rocks. More often, it meant rocks covered in ice, but in this case it definitely meant rocks. If the trail had been covered in snow, the rocks would have been covered and Oikawa would have skied over just fine, but when you’ve got a knee already shot and little light to see with, skidding sideways into an exposed patch of rock at dangerous speeds sends you flying nine times out of ten.

Oikawa’s skis caught against something hard. He felt his back collide with a tree, heard a strangled noise that probably came from his own mouth, and blacked out.

 

~~~

 

There was a college kid, an intern, manning the gondola at the top. Kuroo spotted him before his even came into the lift gate. Upon doing so, he remembered instantly that he wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t taking part in the race. The first skiers--Ushijima, Bokuto, others--would just be finishing their last lap now. The gondola ride would take them another five minutes. Nobody should be on the gondola, and he was. He’d look incredibly suspicious.

The kid must not have seen his skis on the rack hanging off the gondola door, because his first reaction came when Kuroo stepped out. Kuroo had to take out and drop his skis on the ground, because by the time he was done dealing with the guy, his skis would be going back down the mountain. He let them clatter a little too loud.

The guy whipped around, lifted up his goggles. Kuroo assessed him in a second--he was wiry, pale. and short: an easy one. “Hey, what the hell are you doing?” He took a step forward. “You can’t be up here right now, sir, there’s a—”

Kuroo scrambled over and covered the kid’s mouth. He pushed him, gently as he could allow, into the wall, and held a finger to his own mouth. The kid’s eyes bulged.

With his free hand, he pulled down his mask. “I’m Kuroo Tetsurou,” he whispered. “Real famous skier here. You should know who I am. I got business to take care of up here, and I can’t have you telling on me, okay? I’m not gonna fuck with the race or anything, just gotta get one of my buddies out of a tough position, yeah?”

The kid’s eyes bulged more. He began to make muffled shouting noises, wiggling and grabbing at Kuroo’s arm. “Nuh-uh, nuh-uh—” came his protests. If he got any louder, someone would hear.

“No, no, shh-- _ fuck! _ ” Kuroo pulled back his free arm, considered his options, and opted to knock the guy out cold.

“Sorry, sorry!~” Kuroo singsonged a whisper as he laid him down on the available bench, folding his arms over his chest and putting his goggles on top like a bouquet. He’d be found soon enough, and would likely regale the story of Kuroo assaulting him, but Kuroo had only Oikawa on his mind. He patted the guy’s leg twice before collecting his things and hurrying out. “Be a dear and don’t tell!~” The man bore a striking resemblance to Tsukishima.

Kuroo hadn’t thought this through. Outside the lift gate there was the open flat of the intersection, with race coordinators milling around, people wearing headsets, some guy grooming the snow, and  _ cameras. _ Actual television cameras, ready to film bits of the race, with cameramen around them and kids loitering nearby. Those kids were lucky--as grade schoolers, Kuroo and his buddies had never been able to sneak up the mountain at the right time to watch a race. (The kids couldn’t go back down now: the mountain was closed aside from the race route, so the adults had to begrudgingly keep watch over them and restrain them when the skiers passed through. It was a lucky position to be in.)

Several of the men at hand turned to look at Kuroo. It took most of them some time to realize that he wasn’t one of the competitors, a few jumped forward and others spoke into their headsets; one took a long look at Kuroo and came hurrying over on snowshoes.

“Who the hell is that guy? With the skis!”

“What’s he doing?”

“You’re not supposed to be up here!”

“Is he a part of the race?”

Others caught sight of him now, angry and confused shouts punctuated the silence. A few particularly forceful calls of “Hey!” paired with several men staring at him made Kuroo want to retreat back onto the gondola. The first guy to reach him yanked him by the collar and breathed cigarette smoke into his face. Kuroo put up a poor fight.

“Tetsurou,” the man hissed. His eyes were wide and wild, eyebrows furrowed harshly. “Kid, get it together.”

It was Ukai, nose mere centimeters from Kuroo’s. “Are you here to save Oikawa? To get Oikawa out of there?” He whispered it almost too fast for Kuroo to understand. His characteristic blond hair was covered up with a hat and headset.  _ What, is he managing the race or something? _

Ukai’s desperation didn’t waver, he’d come upon Kuroo in an instant. “Tetsurou, _answer me,_ bitch. Are you here to find Oikawa? We’ve got seconds.”

Kuroo’s feet were lifted part-way off the ground, his coat bunched up around his neck and both skis dangling from one hand.  _ Right, Oikawa. _ “I am, I am, yeah,” he managed, and Ukai dropped him in an instant.

“Go,  _ go— _ ” he hissed. He smacked Kuroo on the back, hard. “Get your fucking skis on, I’ll stall for you, you just gotta— you fucking get Oikawa  _ out _ of there, I’ll make sure no one comes down behind you, just go get him, get your  _ skis  _ on right now you need to go find him—” 

“Keishin, what the hell are you doing?” A voice interjected from far away, footsteps crunching over snow. “Get this delinquent out of here! Unless he’s in the race, he can’t be here!”

Under any other circumstances, Kuroo would have shot back at the ‘delinquent’ remark with some cutting words of his own, but he’d just been granted access to go scoop Oikawa and he likely had seconds to scoot down Superstition before several angry men were atop him. He scrambled into the trail’s opening, skis and poles barely attached, to the sweet ambiance of Ukai arguing loudly with several other mountain employees.

Once again Kuroo, and Oikawa in turn, narrowly avoiding obstruction. Kuroo was struck with a burning desire to thank Ukai--it felt now like someone else was actually on his side.

He navigated Superstition’s moguls with brevity and urgency. Never would they have given him real trouble, but in this case they felt like nothing: Oikawa was the only thing on his mind--the physical strain mattered none, and the snow beneath his skis was an insignificant mirage. 

_ Oikawa, _ he thought, brave-faced and invigorated after the encounter at the top, _ I’m coming. _


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was going to apologize for taking so long. it's been almost six weeks. i had a nice, neat apology written out, long-winded and full of reasons.
> 
> but, the truth is, my mental health, my education, and my life all take priority over this fic. that's not to say i didn't procrastinate, because i did, but i don't owe an apology to anyone. this was the hardest thing i've ever had to write, and the longest thing i've ever had to write, and the fact that i maintained a schedule for so long is an accomplishment.
> 
> this update is over twenty-two thousand words long, anyways, so i think you guys will be satisfied.
> 
> (i'm going to be editing, revising, betaing, and printing out a physical copy of this fic before its life is over. it's going to be a book, and i am going to have a copy of it.)
> 
> and often, at the end, authors give thanks to those who help them, their betas, their friends, and those who encouraged them, but i have only one person: ollie, @radiodoxes, who was with me, skiing, the day the idea for this fic was born.
> 
> and then there's you guys, and all your beautiful comments that made me cry more than once, and kept me going through the long evenings and sleepy mornings i spent on this thing. some of them were so impossibly kind, so impossibly uplifting and sweet that i'm grinning like an idiot even as i think about them. i've worked very hard on what you're about to read: could you give me one more?
> 
> this is the end result of months of work, months of thought, and hours and hours worth of my time. i am incredibly proud of this story and myself, for going it alone. i have grown very much as a writer, and very much as a person, for dedicating myself to this and completing it. i am so happy to share it with you!
> 
> so, one last time:
> 
> enjoy chapter thirteen.

Oikawa stirred awake in the woods.

He first noticed the pain in his back, then the blurry image of the skis unclipped from his feet meters away. One stuck straight up in the snow.

Oikawa could see very little, only when the light nearest him flickered did his situation become clear; he glanced up at it remorsefully. He realized with a start that here was snow up the rear of his coat, melting against his back. Yanking the front zipper open, he pulled himself upright to peel it off. The entire back of his t-shirt was soaked. Sitting up wasn’t a problem—the tree he’d collided with worked as a backrest and he was deep enough in the woods that anyone passing by wouldn’t spot him. He took a deep breath, and assured himself:  _ waiting out the race is an option. _

Around him, the snow was a mess. A trail was visible, from the edge of the woods to where he now sat, where the snow was disrupted and overturned; where he’d presumably tumbled until slamming into the tree. When he leaned forward he could see the patch of exposed rock on Jagaimo that had sent him. He pressed a hand to his lower back gingerly, pulling away the next second when his body protested.

_ Waiting out the race is an option. _

He’d collect his skis once he recovered further, all of his things were within reach, physically he seemed fine, and his helmet had likely saved him from any concussion. He muttered to himself quietly as he felt around, loosening his boots and rolling up his snowpants while doing his best to keep his legs still. He knew his knee had to be addressed. It ached on the way down and continued to ache now; although he didn’t anticipate finding it dislocated or bleeding, he had no idea what skiing would do to the brace and there was a chance that it had slid out of position.

It looked fine, the brace, it looked like normal and didn’t chafe too hard. There was a small cut on his lower thigh where it had pressed in, presumably when he fell, but the fact that his knee felt okay when stationary was a good sign. He moved it.

It did not feel fine when he moved it.

He bent his leg only slightly, keeping his other on the ground and both hands on his thigh for support, but the pain shot through his lower body like lightning. The dull, uncomfortable ache of a dislocation wasn’t present, nor the worn-out soreness of a torn ligament, but something else entirely.

_ Fuck, I  fractured my fucking kneecap. _

It must have happened when he hit the tree--or when he fell and tumbled. He didn’t know. His ski bindings were still set incredibly tight, too, settings favored by expert skiers who didn’t want their skis to come off easily if they put a lot of strain on them. He should have changed that before he came up, and he cursed himself now for not doing it. The fact that both his skis managed to come off in the fall told him that it had been a hard one; his bleeding back and aching torso apparently not evidence enough.

_ Well, fuck,  _ he thought.  _ What am I supposed to do now? _

He slowly flattened his leg back out, teeth gritted, and shuffled around in his coat for his phone. There were spots on the mountain where cell service was available, and he figured a quick call to Suga would get him off the mountain, as embarrassing as coming down on a stretcher would be.

After several minutes of tapping on the screen and holding the tiny device up as high as possible, he gathered that this ditch was not one of the few spots on the mountain where cell service was available. He looked up to the trees, and whispered a tiny “fuck you.”

In reaching forward to put his phone back into his coat, he spotted a skier coming through Jagaimo. He froze, eyes ablaze, hand shoved halfway into his coat pocket.

_ Ushijima? How long was I out for? What lap is this? _

It wasn’t Ushijima: the skier’s coat was red. They wore a mask, but the rest of their face was hard to make out. They didn’t ski like Ushijima, they stood up tall and stayed straight, looking back and forth and skiing slowly. It was obscure behavior. If they were in the race, they were either far ahead or far behind, isolated from the others and unconcerned with speed. They avoided the patch of rock that tripped Oikawa up.

Something stabbed at Oikawa’s chest as they neared, his body’s involuntary reaction to what he thought he saw.

The skier had hair that looked a lot like Kuroo’s.

“It’s not him.” Oikawa spoke it aloud, eyes glued to the person’s figure. They meandered along watchfully, going at a pace not suited for a race. Clearly, the person wasn’t invested in it; Kuroo wasn’t in the race, so that lined up. If he were here, somehow, he would only be here to find Oikawa. That would explain the looking around.

“It’s not him.” Oikawa spoke more forcefully. He dug his bare hands into the snow. “Not him, not him, not him.” They were as close as they were going to be, now, passing by the woods where Oikawa hid. He reflexively made himself smaller.

When they passed, though, Oikawa jolted upright. On the back of the person’s coat was the kanji for “SKI SCHOOL” in white. Their skin was dark, their hair darker, they were tall and lanky; they had no goggles on, and the same black half-face mask that Kuroo owned. Their boots looked a lot like the ones Oikawa shoplifted for Kuroo at the beginning of the season—

Oikawa was kidding himself at this point. It was Kuroo, and the violent aching in his chest belied his understanding.

_What the hell is he doing here?_ Oikawa didn’t know whether to shout to him or stay silent—he desperately wanted to call out, but he couldn’t remember if Kuroo was mad at him or not; he couldn’t remember where they’d left off. He pushed his bare fingers deeper into the snow. _He might be looking for me,_ he thought, _he might have come up here looking for me._ The notion stirred something within him, egged him to get up, dulled the pain in his knee. Oikawa could feel himself shaking.

Then Kuroo sped up suddenly. Where Jagaimo met Misoshiru, he pushed forwards and disappeared below the rise of the trail without warning, into what Oikawa understood to be a sea of moguls. He seemed frustrated, angry, even. Oikawa, despite his own situation, feared for him.

_ Does his know this race course is rigged? _

Oikawa began shuffling to his feet, doing his very best to ignore the searing pain in his knee and his back’s protests. He had nothing else to focus on but getting back out on the trail. If he got back out, Kuroo would run into him eventually, and the very image of Kuroo standing before him properly sent lighting through his chest. Absence, supposedly, makes the heart only fonder, and Kuroo had been absent from Oikawa’s life for far too long.

He paused, arm halfway into a coat sleeve.  _ I wonder if Suga sent him. I wonder if that’s the only reason he’s looking for me, if that’s even what he’s doing. But why else would he be out—  _

A godawful scraping noise blew through the woods.

Oikawa stilled. He then heard a thud, more skidding, and Kuroo’s voice screaming “SHIT!” It was distant, but incredibly jarring against the silence. There was quiet again, then more scraping, and another hitting noise. Kuroo was shouting curses.

Oikawa covered his mouth with a hand. 

_ The moguls.  _

If the moguls on Superstition were bad, then the Moguls on Misoshiru would be worse. Kuroo was always bad at moguls. _ Has he fallen? _ Terror ripped through Oikawa, his heartbeat in his throat. He felt his right leg almost give out on him. On this death trap of a route, and with how fast Kuroo went down Misoshiru, he knew it was possible.

Niseko had three ditches running along its face. Calling them ditches was something of an understatement—they were more like cliffs. At their deepest point, they were maybe eighty feet deep, several trails wide, and ran along the mountain’s entire front; they were strictly off limits. Anyone attempting to ski down them would either slip and need to be rescued, or get caught doing it and get thrown out. It was the one rule that Niseko’s staff took seriously, and that was certainly saying something: people like Bokuto often got away with pushing kids around and antagonizing tourists, but in messing with the ditches they would have been kicked out. They were the one recurring place on the mountain where people got hurt.

Superstition, Jagaimo, and Misoshiru were adjacent to one of the ditches. They were the easiest way to get to them, and to the same extent the easiest places to fall in. Jagaimo was protected by its dense woods, and Superstition was towards the top where the gulley was less deep.

Misoshiru, though, with icy conditions like these and the impossible moguls--Misoshiru had the potential to trip up even the best of skiers, and send them down into the ravine.

Even Kuroo.

In an instant, Oikawa was frantic, yanking on his jacket the rest of the way, scrambling towards his skis and digging them out of the snowbank where they’d landed. Pain shot from his knee every time he put weight on it, but he gritted his teeth and continued on. He dragged his skis out onto the flat of Jagaimo and yanked on his pole straps, unconcerned with being seen. All he could think of was Kuroo and the cliff.

He slid over and stared down Misoshiru for a moment, taking in the drop. It was how he knew it, a narrow J-shape with one of the steepest inclines on the mountain. Moguls ran down and back. They cut in deep, identical to the ones on Superstition; his legs ached at the sight of them. Towards the left edge were shallower moguls, beyond that only sparse woods and then the ditch. He squinted, peeling off his goggles, searching for a shape that might resemble Kuroo, but that section of the trail was dark enough that he only saw shadows. He pressed on.

The way down was not as as fast as he would have liked. He hugged the left, praying with each shift from one leg to the other that what he was doing was worth it, that Kuroo would be down there somewhere and he’d find him. He favored his right side dangerously.

_ Isn’t that funny,  _ he realized,  _ Kuroo came here likely looking for me and now I’m looking for him. _

His right leg slipped from under him quickly; the trail was steep enough that he fell back against the snow with his other tucked beneath him.

“Fuck,” he spat. His right knee burned, the pain now magnified and acute.  _ I shouldn’t be skiing on this thing. I can’t be skiing on this thing. _

He sent a glance back up the mountain, looking for oncoming skiers; the thought of being seen by Ushijima in this state mortified him. He looked back, then, to the shadows. The woods here between the ravine and the trail were thin, he figured he was close enough.

“Kuroo?” he called. The name felt foreign on his tongue. “Hey Kuroo, you over there?” He waited; no sound. His voice was feeble.

He cleared his throat, feeling incredibly exposed. “It’s Oikawa,” he managed. He figured that shouting into the darkness for a lost lover while incapacitated and alone probably had some deeper meaning, but his knee was punishing him, the back of his shirt was still wet with snow, and the only thing his bleary mind could focus on was making sure Kuroo wasn’t hurt.

“Kuroo?” In repeating it, he got louder. He gripped his poles tight. “Kuroo, you there?” Something angry bubbled up inside of him. “C’mon, it’s Oikawa. Come on, baby.”

He heard something in the woods: a crack, like a branch snapping. He retracted on instinct, heat coiling in his chest. He remained silent and intent, head turned to listen better.

A quiet rustling came. Something crunched against snow, something unzipped. “Oikawa?” a voice asked.

Oikawa could feel his blood pressure spike. He had to stop himself from getting up. “Kuroo? Kuroo, is that—Kuroo?”

“Oikawa?” The voice was choked. “Oikawa, it’s me, it’s me.” He was impossibly distant. “I’m in here, help me, oh my god. Is that you? Oikawa?” He was struggling against something, the rustling of branches and crunching of snow punctuating his words. “Oikawa, can you come over here? Are you okay? Are you there?”

Oikawa, then, lost all restraint and concern for his knee, clicking off his skis as fast as he could and scrambling blindly towards the woods. He felt like there was electricity in his body; between the prospect of seeing Kuroo again and the shooting pain from his leg he was overloaded with adrenaline. “Kuroo, I’m coming. You didn’t go down the cliff? Where’s the ditch, are you okay? Can you—Can you keep talking to me?” At this point he had to drag his right leg, the ski boot was weighing it down and his knee had given up on him. He hobbled through the woods as fast as he could, clinging to each tree for support. There were tears in his eyes.

Kuroo’s voice was choked and breathy and far away. “Can you see? Oikawa, it’s you, right? Oiks?”

The nickname speared Oikawa in the chest. “It’s me!” He almost screamed it. “It’s me, it’s me. Are you okay? You didn’t fall in the ditch?” In the dark, he bumped his head into a tree branch; he was giddy and disoriented enough that it didn’t matter. “Where are you?”

“Over here, over here—” Kuroo’s voice was much closer now, and to Oikawa the closer it got the sweeter it sounded. “I didn’t fall, no, I didn’t—are you okay? Tell me you’re okay. Oh my gosh, it’s you.” He waved his arm, and with his coat on it was a distant splotch of red against the blackness of the forest.

Longing had never gripped Oikawa so tight before. He hadn’t understood, until now, how impossibly angry and blind he’d been in Kuroo’s absence. Bokuto was there, sure, and he couldn’t imagine letting Bokuto go, but no one, not Suga or Bokuto or the two of them together, could heal the gaping wounds he fostered in the weeks without Kuroo. Kuroo was a piece of his puzzle, a very real and tangible part of him that he had been trying to live without. It was stupid and reckless, and now with the knowledge that Ushijima had been behind the accident, he was more than ready to bring Kuroo back into his life. The waving red splotch of Kuroo’s coat sleeve in the dark was, to him, the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel; he’d stumble towards it till he collapsed. 

“I’m coming, I’m—coming.” Oikawa hopped awkwardly through the snow, at this point completely incapable of putting weight on his right leg without losing balance. Even the pressure that hopping put on his knee was difficult to handle. “Are you—Kuroo, are you stuck? Can you move? I can’t really walk.”

“I’m stuck,” Kuroo called. He paused a moment before shouting again. “My ski is stuck in a tree and my boot can’t click out of it.”

Oikawa took a moment to process this; in his foggy and emotional state the specifics of skis and boots and limbs all seemed arbitrary. When it struck him, however, he was thankful; it was the lesser of two evils next to slipping down the ravine. “Oh my god, are you okay? How did that happen?”

Kuroo waved his arm again. “I came off the moguls too fast and I went straight into the woods, can you—can you try to come over here? I know—I’m sorry it hurts. I bet it hurts. Can you please try? I’ll explain everything, I’ll fix everything.”

Kuroo need not plead any more; Oikawa was already limping along again, ignoring the pain in his knee in favor of Kuroo’s ever-nearing silhouette. “I’m coming, I’m coming. I don’t know how you got your ski stuck in a tree, but I—” Oikawa stopped speaking.

He was only feet from Kuroo, now, and Kuroo in turn was only inches from the cliff. Beyond where Kuroo stood, there were no more trees; there was the drop off, the distant other half of the mountain, and the night sky. He wanted desperately to continue, to shuffle along the rest of the way until he could reach him, knee pain forgotten; but for what was probably the first time in Oikawa’s life, self-preservation instincts prevailed.

“Kuroo,” he said, no longer needing to shout. He spoke softly, could make out Kuroo’s eyes riveted to him in the dark. The dark irises wavered for a moment. “You’re really close to that cliff.”

The tree Kuroo had his ski stuck in was dead and fallen; a spruce. It’s trunk lay parallel to the gulley, Kuroo’s right ski jammed in between where two trunks separated. His ski was stuck slightly upwards, high enough off the ground that he had to lift his foot but low enough that he could stand upright. His right ski was bending beneath the weight of his leg, his other planted beneath him with boot and ski still attached. Even in the low light, Oikawa could see his poles discarded an arm’s reach away, along with the holes in the snow they’d made when Kuroo tried to pull himself out.

Oikawa so desperately wanted to close the distance between them, longed to reach out and _ touch  _ him again—at this point they were both incapacitated and helpless, anger and pain long forgotten and replaced with their innate, tangible need for one another; yet, he couldn’t trust himself not to slip down the drop-off when he only had one good leg to work with. He tightened his hand’s grip on a tree trunk. “You’re really, really close to it.”

Kuroo maintained eye contact.“Yeah,” he said, “I know.” He pulled his gaze away and stared down the ravine, then turned back to look at Oikawa. “That’s why I need you to help me get out of it.”

“Kuroo, I can’t—” Oikawa stopped. “Kuroo, I can’t help you get out of that thing. Look at me. Why are you even here? Why are you on the mountain?

Kuroo flinched, and despite seeing that coming, Oikawa regretted the accusation in his voice.

“I came up here to find  _ you, _ ” Kuroo said. He played with his coat zipper. “I came up here to try and stop you from skiing. I knew you were gonna get hurt, or that you might, at least--please don’t be mad. I don’t mean to say that you’re—”

Oikawa shook his head, held up a hand for Kuroo to stop. “I’m not mad, Kuroo, it was stupid of me to join the race. Who let—who told you I was here?” He adjusted his grip on his tree, ever-aware of how feeble he must look. Even in front of Kuroo—hell,  _ especially _ in front of Kuroo, he regretted every decision leading up to this moment. Standing here in the dark with a fractured knee, a bruised back and a glaring disregard for his own health: it was embarrassing. Reality was staring him in the face—hell, Suga always called him reckless, and Suga was always right about him being reckless, and proud, but there had never been any consequences.

Aside from the accident, he now knew, since that was a product of his determination to beat Ushijima and the skier’s anger that followed. He didn’t know how he was going to tell Kuroo the truth.  _ “Hey, so, you know that life-changing incident you caused that’s riddled you with guilt for the past several years, disabled me permanently, and has ultimately destroyed our relationship? It wasn’t actually your fault.” _ The cynic in him wanted to tell him in those exact words. He couldn’t make eye contact with Kuroo anymore.

Kuroo was silent, and when he spoke his voice was weak and unsure. “Who told me? It was Suga, he showed up at my apartment an hour ago and told me that you were entering the race. He, uh, told me not to do it, but I was worried about you, so.” His tone of voice changed in an instant. “Are you okay, though?” He held out a hand, tentative. “That’s why I came up here in the first place, to try and stop you from like, killing yourself. I had to knock a guy out to do it, too, uh, and Ukai helped me. Are you? I mean, are you alright?” He gestured to Oikawa’s knee, and the tree Oikawa was leaning on so carefully.

Oikawa didn’t say anything; the shadows protected his face from Kuroo’s gaze and he didn’t know how to respond without breaking down.

Kuroo stared off to the side. “Yeah, well.” He rubbed his face. “I can understand why you’d be mad.”

Oikawa wondered if Kuroo, too, felt stupid. They probably looked stupid; the moment of glory upon seeing Kuroo again had passed, the longing was there still, but it was bitter and trampled upon by Kuroo’s tree issue and Oikawa’s throbbing knee. Oikawa swallowed hard, tried to quell the burning sensation making itself at home in his chest, and listened to Kuroo speak.

“I’m sorry if this all seems pretentious of me, showing up here to try and save you. I’ve got my fucking foot stuck in a tree at the edge of a fucking cliff. Look at this. I fucked up, Oikawa. You don’t need to be saved, anyways. That was stupid of me.” He looked up, and Oikawa saw the whites of his eyes flash. “Or, at least, you wouldn’t be in this position not for me. God, I’m the one who caused this, and I try to fix it, and now I’m stuck in a fucking tree, and I can’t get out of this fucking tree, and if I move an inch I might slip down into a ravine, and so you can’t come near me, and you’re not saying anything, and your knee probably hurts a ton, and god, I’m so sorry, Oikawa, I’m so sorry I ran into you those years ago, I’m so sorry I went through that snowblower and didn’t look where I was going and ran into you and busted your knee open and I’m sorry that I went halfway through Challenge before I turned back to get you and I’m sorry that I’ve caused you so much pain in your life and that you can’t ski anymore and I’m stupid for even doing this or saying this right now because I probably—”

Oikawa’s self preservation instincts were all at once gone again. In seconds—a miracle time, as his knee now shot lightning through his lower body every time he moved—he closed the space between him and Kuroo, pulled the man against him, and began to cry.

He was an ugly, loud crier, and he was familiar with this, and Kuroo was familiar with this. Kuroo went quiet the moment they touched, stood still for a second, but soon relaxed and tugged Oikawa closer. It was awkward, with Kuroo’s leg sticking up and Oikawa in a pair of ski boots, but even the most basic physical contact between them took the edge off the pain. Oikawa buried his face in Kuroo’s shoulder, and leaned against him as much as his knee would allow. He wanted to say something, to quell the worries Kuroo spelled out for him so helplessly, but as much as he wanted to speak, words wouldn’t come. He felt almost on fire.

He hoped the sudden rush of emotion on contact was mutual, and that it was enough to soothe Kuroo’s misery. There were so many unspoken things between them, and still so much Oikawa had yet to tell him, and he didn’t know where to begin. They were stupid, and the situation they were in was stupid, and the decisions leading up to their situation were stupid; Oikawa didn’t know how he let things get this far, didn’t know why he didn’t foresee his regret, and wanted to kick himself for not showing Kuroo the video of Ushijima pushing him the moment he got his hands on it. All he knew, now, was that he and Kuroo needed each other back; the involuntary physical reaction he gave in simply hugging Kuroo was enough to tell him so. He could feel his skin burn where Kuroo touched it.

“I’m sorry,” Kuroo whispered. His breath brushed against Oikawa’s ear. Even though they’d been this close hundred of times before, it felt shockingly intimate; like the first time all over again. “I’m so sorry, Oikawa, I’m sorry that any of this happened, I’m sorry I raced Bokuto, I’m sorry I walked out on you, I’m sorry I got my ski stuck in this tree, I’m sorry it took me so long to—”

“Stop,” Oikawa breathed. He took Kuroo by the shoulders and separated them, wiping his face. “Stop that, god.” He ducked his head, gathering himself for a moment before speaking. “It’s my fault for skiing again. This—” he winced, and gestured to his leg, “Is my fault. I fractured my kneecap again, just now. I hit a bare patch of rock on Jagaimo and went flying into the woods. I can’t walk.” He waited, and watched Kuroo’s face. “I shouldn’t have done this, I shouldn’t have gotten so stupidly angry at you, and I shouldn’t have entered this race, because I injured myself again. This—” with emphasis, he gestured to his leg again, “is not your fault. Right now it’s my fault, because I shouldn’t have entered this thing at all. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Kuroo made meaningful eye contact with him, and for a moment Oikawa thought they were going to kiss, but Kuroo shook his head. “Why—why did you enter? Why did you do this to yourself? If we’re being honest with each other here, which we should, ‘cause I have my fucking foot in a tree and you’re incapacitated so there’s no point in lying or doing anything anymore, god, what did you think would come of this? Did you... think this was a good idea?”

Oikawa had to laugh at himself. Kuroo’s questions were simple, and required a simple answer, but he didn’t know how to answer them: of course he didn’t think it was a good idea, of course he knew nothing good would come of entering the race, but he did it anyways. For some stupid reason, probably.

He did it because of Ushijima.

He remembered it suddenly, and with borderline terror:  _ I did it because of Ushijima. _

Oikawa let go of Kuroo, then, and half-stumbled, half-walked several steps back, hands held up. “Ushijima,” he said. “It’s because— Kuroo, Ushijima, the video, the race. Oh my god, oh my god—” he put his hands to his head, and with as much grace as possible, crumbled to the ground; his knee putting up with him no longer. “Kuroo, it’s all because of Ushijima. The video, the fucking video.”

Alarm registered on Kuroo’s face, and he tried to reach down for Oikawa, but his tree-jammed leg prevented him. “Oikawa, what?” His voice was full of concern. He yanked on his leg in frustration. “What about Ushijima?”

Oikawa held both hands out, distressed. “Ushijima, Kuroo, Ushijima is the reason I entered this race. I fucking forgot why I entered the race in the first place. It’s because of him, oh my god, oh my—”

“Oikawa, are you alright? You fell. Slow down, hey.” Kuroo reached out for him again, offering a hand up. “Be more careful with yourself.”

Oikawa turned him down. “No, no, I need to explain this right now.” He was frantically unzipping his coat pockets, searching for his phone. “Ha!” he said, producing it. “Look, look at this, look at…” he trailed off, phone inches from his face, tapping at it urgently, the screen almost blinding him.

Kuroo was defeated. “Oikawa, what? What are you doing? Is your leg okay? You make me nervous when you tumble over like—”

“THIS!” Oikawa insisted, thrusting the phone up at Kuroo with a dangerous glint in his eye. “This, this, watch this, watch it, you’ll understand everything.” He attempted to get to his feet, but only shuffled closer on his butt. “Ushijima,” he said, as if it explained everything. “It’s Ushijima.”

Kuroo, slowly, took the phone from his grasp, sending him a concerned look before fixing his eyes to the screen. “What is this?”

Oikawa tried to get up, gripping Kuroo’s leg and tugging. “It’s a video, Kuroo, watch it, just watch it. Let me get up, I gotta—”

“What does this have to do with—”

“Just watch it!” Oikawa cut him off, fists balled in Kuroo’s snowpants. “It’s drone footage.”

Kuroo blinked at the screen, the video now playing. “From what race, though? I don’t recognise this. Are you okay? Oikawa, you—”

“Shut up.” Oikawa, victoriously, staggered to his feet and clung to Kuroo’s torso. “Watch, watch, just watch it.” He tapped the screen again to make sure it was playing.

Kuroo glanced at him. “You’re awfully excited.”

Oikawa paused. He watched the phone out of the corner of his eye. Should he be excited? Would Kuroo be glad to find out that Ushijima caused the accident, or would he be angry? Oikawa had asked Yamaguchi to send the video to him once he saw it, just in case he needed it again somehow. He was grateful, now, that he asked, but at the time he hadn’t imagined showing it to Kuroo. Now, he had no clue what Kuroo’s reaction would be. Oikawa’s own reaction was anger: blind, righteous, stupid, anger that had led to equally stupid decisions. What would that look like on Kuroo, right now? Would it spell disaster?

Oikawa’s train of thought was cut off by Kuroo speaking: “Oikawa, is this from the accident?” Kuroo was staring at him, eyes wide, from over the screen. He had the video paused, and a finger hovering over it.

Oikawa nodded, his insides contorting. He tightened his grip on Kuroo’s jacket. “It’s, uh—yeah. It’s from the accident.” He paused, giving him an opportunity to say something. “I know I sound insane. This probably seems insane. Please just watch it.”

Kuroo’s eyes slid back to the phone, flicked back up at Oikawa for a moment; and he tapped the screen again.  _ You’re insane, right, but I trust you, _ is what that said. Oikawa floated.

They stood, in silence, for what felt like a long time. Kuroo’s gaze never left the phone, and Oikawa’s bare hands never left the hem of his jacket. Oikawa watched his expression for a while, but when the confusion and anger arose in his features, he had to look away. He focused on quelling the throbbing pain in his knee, and the disparate bliss of being in such close physical proximity with Kuroo again. Despite the pain and the terror of their situation, there was a quiet, steady hum of contentedness buzzing away at the back of his head.  _ We’re together again, and at least this much is right.  _

Kuroo froze up the second time through the video. Oikawa watched him as he rewound, and rewound again, and finally made eye contact with him.

“I didn’t see it before,” he said, “but am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?” There was pain, and fear in his voice. “About the video, about Ushijima—”

“You’re right.” Oikawa said it as fast as he could. “You’re seeing it right, it’s—Ushijima did it, he’s the one. He did that. What you think you’re seeing. His arm, he had his arm on your shoulder and then you hit me.”

Kuroo, eyes blazing, huffed out a breath. “He… pushed me.”

“That’s right, he pushed you into me, he—” Oikawa reached to point at the phone. “Here, you see it. He’s got his left arm on your right shoulder, and you’re lined up, and right after that, you run into me—”

He stopped the video right before the impact, their two blurry figures only pixels apart on the screen. The pause symbol covered up the space between them. “We know the rest,” he said. He had no desire to witness the accident again, and even the frozen image on the tiny phone screen made his guts contort.

Kuroo swallowed, breathing out before speaking. “So, he pushed me. He pushed me into you. I didn’t actually run into you.”

Oikawa nodded. “You wouldn’t have hit me otherwise. It wasn’t your negligence, or your goggles, it was... him.” He felt numb saying it, like his voice was disembodied and he was hearing himself speak from far away. “It was always him.” He and Kuroo were impossibly close now, and as he reached out to take his phone back, his fingers fumbled. “Oh, shit, sorry.” It slipped from Kuroo’s grasp and landed at their feet.

He bent down to pick it up off the snow, but realized too late that his knee wasn’t going to allow him. “Oh, fuck—”

Kuroo caught him by the waist before he fell over all the way, but Oikawa’s right leg slipped from beneath him and brought the phone with it as it went. The bottom of his ski boot pushed the device away from him until it was skidding across the inclined snowbank, towards the ditch, down the ravine and out of sight.

“Wait, did that just—” Kuroo stared down the gulley as he set Oikawa upright. “Did your phone just fall into the ravine?”

Oikawa was stock still, both hands on Kuroo’s shoulders and his eyes glued to the darkness beneath them. “Yeah,” he said, “Yeah it did.” He wasn’t processing it properly, so it felt like nothing, but he knew it would hit him later. “That’s, uh, not the point. Ushijima pushed—”

“Oiks, your phone just fell into a pit.”

Momentarily, Oikawa wanted to smack him. “I don’t care. I can get a new one. We were going over the video, Kuroo, we were talking about the video.”

“What if we need to call someone?”

“It’s fine. You have yours. Think about the video, Kuroo. Ushijima pushed you into me. You didn’t cause the accident. Ushijima hurt me. Think, Kuroo.”

Kuroo refocused without further prodding. “Where did you get that video, actually? Has it been out there the whole time, the two of us just not knowing about it?”

“Yamaguchi showed it to me.”

Kuroo took a second.“My student? My ski student Yamaguchi?”

“He showed it to me two days ago. Turns out he went to Ukai with it, and then Ukai took him to show me at like midnight at the rental shop. It was a weird interaction. Yamaguchi said he was looking up old videos of me skiing because the kid worships me, or something, and he came across it on some shady website. I don’t know how he was perceptive enough to notice Ushijima pushing you, but it’s there.”

“Oh shit, really? Yamaguchi’s been trying to show me something all week, and I haven’t listened.”

“It was probably the video.”

“He was probably trying to show it to Bokuto, too, when we ran into him, but I didn’t let him. Holy shit, I would have found all this out so much earlier if I’d just listened to the kid.”

Oikawa mustered a smile, but some part of him was angry with Kuroo. Kuroo was right--if he’d seen the video first, Oikawa wouldn’t have gotten so angry with Ushijima, and wouldn’t have joined the race; the two of them wouldn’t be standing here right now, stuck in the woods in the dark at the side of a ravine on a mountain. 

Kuroo was still struggling to put the pieces together. “Ushijima, he— he pushed me, on purpose, though? Was he trying to hurt me, or you? And how the fuck did I not notice him doing it?” He paused. “Was he even doing it on purpose? There’s no way, he had to have been—”

“You saw the video, Kuroo, that was deliberate. I think—”

“But  _ why? _ ” Kuroo asked. He tipped his head back, indignant. “Why? What would Ushijima have gotten out of that?” He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, staring towards the woods in distress. “He doesn’t give a shit about us, though! He feels no emotions! He only cares about the rules, and pushing me into you breaks probably a dozen different rules. What the fuck? And I didn’t even notice! He didn’t, there’s no—”

“Kuroo.” Oikawa steadied Kuroo with a hand to the waist. “He hated me. Or, well, hates me. He did it because he hates me.”

Kuroo brought himself back, squinting. He stayed like that for a moment before saying: “He never hated you, though, did he? There’s no way. He has the emotions of a chopstick.”

“He did hate me, Kuroo. You remember that time I beat him?” It pained Oikawa to explain this; it was a powerful reminder of the control Ushijima still had over his life. “I beat him in a race.”

Kuroo’s lips parted thoughtfully. “No, I— maybe.” He put a hand to his forehead and looked away again. “That was so long ago, wow. Did you beat him before the accident?”

“It was the race right before the accident. It was like a month before. Do you remember how much of a big deal it was? You were there, Kuroo, it was a mess. His coaches were up in arms, people accused me of using steroids, everyone wanted me dead or something. He never said anything about it, but that was normal, ‘cause he’s Ushijima. I think that’s the explanation. I think he was secretly mad that I beat him, and so he got back at me by shoving you into me. Who knows if he wanted it to turn out as bad as it did. Maybe his coaches encouraged him to do it.”

“You…” Kuroo trailed off. He was biting down on the inside of his cheek. “It makes sense. That… makes sense. It’s a logical explanation, but—” He stared into the ground. “It’s just, Oikawa, he  _ pushed _ me. He pushed me into you. It’s not technically my fault.”

“Yeah,” Oikawa breathed. A stone had lodged itself in his throat. “You’re not the cause of all this. It was never your fault. Never.”

“It was never my fault.” Kuroo repeated. He was then silent, half bent over with eyes glued to the snow. He was breathing slowly. “I know... that you think I’m going have a big reaction.” Kuroo spoke quietly, then, and looked up at him with beady eyes. After a moment of silence he linked their hands together. “That I’m gonna have a meltdown or cry tears of joy or get angry or something, I dunno. ‘Cause this is big, and I know that it’s big, to you, at least. It seems big, right?”

Oikawa couldn’t do anything but stare at him, wide-eyed, and nod.

“That video, well. It’s incriminating. It certainly changes something, right? It was never my fault.”

Oikawa had no idea where he was going with this; he himself had had such a violent and instantaneous reaction that Kuroo’s calm was alarming.

“But the fact that it was never really my fault doesn’t matter. I should be happy, right? I should be free of guilt? I dunno, this seems like it should be a huge weight off my shoulders or something, but it’s not.”

Oikawa had to force himself to speak: “Why?”

“It was never about me.”

Oikawa blinked. He tightened his grip on Kuroo’s hand, and stayed silent.

“Right? The accident was never mine. You’re the one who took the brunt of it; you’re the one who fell on the sword. You’re the one who’s had the strength to cope with it for all these years. I felt guilty, absolutely, but my guilt is insignificant next to what you’ve gone through; because of that, I have no right to be this way or that about it.”

“I— I mean.” Oikawa didn’t know how to reply. Something big was rising in his chest.

“If I were to feel happiness, or some kind of relief over this, it would be selfish of me. Maybe we now know the accident to be different, but the outcome is still the same: you’re still affected. That’s what matters, not my own personal guilt or feelings about it. You’re still coping, you’re still putting up with all the bullshit that resulted, the accident still affects you. Because of that, I can’t be happy about it, even though it’s not my fault. Only when it doesn’t—only when it doesn’t affect your life anymore can I be happy about it, and I don’t know when that day is going to come.”

Oikawa swallowed, making a sincere effort to hold Kuroo’s gaze. He didn’t understand half of what Kuroo said, but the redness in his eyes and the cracks in his voice told him what he needed to know. He hesitated before reacting; he was afraid that all the mounting happiness eating away at his insides would manifest in some wickedly embarrassing form. He trembled as he reached out to him.

“Do you really—do you really feel this way?” He drew Kuroo to him quickly, urgently, wrapping his arms around his torso and pressing his forehead to his neck. Tears blurred his vision and choked his voice. “I thought— I thought it would change something, I thought you’d feel free, I thought you’d be happy to know that you’re not the cause of my pain, I thought—”

Kuroo, who never really cried, who always pretended to be above such a soft and childlike behavior, was getting Oikawa’s hair wet with tears as they embraced. “Whatever caused it doesn’t matter, Oikawa, because you’re in pain. It doesn’t matter if it’s not my fault, it doesn’t—” He sucked in a shaky breath. “You’re still hurting, and that tears me up inside. You’re still— you’re still out there, you’re still suffering because of this, and I’ll never be able to rest. God, fuck, Oikawa—” he pulled his head away to wipe his face. When his arm moved away, he was staring down at Oikawa with tears in his eyes. “God, fuck. I love you, Oiks. Fuck this, why haven’t we come out and said it already, I love you, I still love you, I fucking love you _ so much _ that I could  _ die _ , I love—”

Oikawa didn’t know if Kuroo kissed him, or if he kissed Kuroo, but in an instant their lips met.

 That instant felt like the moment right before jumping into a pool, it was the mindless split second between seeing the starting gun fire and hearing it, it was something coming of nothing; it was like his chest getting knocked in by a ton of bricks. 

It was the same gut-tearing, life-altering feeling of the accident.

This time, though, there was no pain: there was only the heated grip of Kuroo’s hands on his hair and the giddy, giddy fire roaring up in his chest, the summation and the release of all the things they should have told one another: it was acceptance, apology, agreement. Oikawa wanted to cry.

He was.

What a stupid thought. Of course he was already crying.

“I can’t believe it took us this long to fix things.” Kuroo breathed this in-between kisses. His voice was hoarse, choked, and beautiful. “I can’t believe we even made it this far without each other, fuck.” He laughed against Oikawa’s mouth, hands cupping his face. “I can’t believe how  _ stupid _ we are, Oiks, we’re so goddamn stupid to each other.”

The heat in Oikawa’s chest threatened to burn right through him. The press of Kuroo’s fingers on his neck, the familiarity of his voice and the lack of space between them, the tug of his words, their wet tears mixing in with the kiss: he never understood the depth of his longing until now. “I know,” he managed, and kissed him deeper, “I know.” There was more he could say, there were nearly two months’ worth of apologies and regrets that he had stockpiled, enough that he could sit Kuroo down for hours and explain to him each thing he’d done that he wished he hadn’t; but as of now the overbearing want, and perhaps  _ need _ , that kept him rooted where he was with his hands tugging on Kuroo’s hair and his tongue in Kuroo’s mouth, stopped him from doing so. “I love you,” he choked. “I can’t believe how much I missed you.”

A noise escaped Kuroo’s chest. “I know,” he replied. “We should have never—” Kuroo breathed in their shared air. “--separated in the first place.” He mumbled something like “Oh god” against Oikawa’s lips next, and Oikawa’s heart lurched.

They had shared countless kisses. Hundreds upon hundreds. Oikawa knew Kuroo’s mouth and his taste and his breathing like the back of his hand, like an extension of his own body; he knew the way Kuroo liked to grip his hair and bite his lips and ruin the necklines of his shirts with all his pulling, and he knew when Kuroo really meant a kiss, when he wanted to get something across, whether it be dominance or forgiveness or lust or an apology: here, now, Kuroo had never meant it more, and Oikawa could tell. He slid an arm around Kuroo’s waist and pulled him closer.

He hadn’t thought their reunion would be like this. Even when he first saw Kuroo through the woods and it seemed as if his most unreachable prayers had been answered, his hopes hadn’t reached this high. He didn’t think he’d be able to touch him, he didn’t think he’d be able to be honest with him, and the thought of kissing him, properly and meaningfully kissing him, hadn’t even crossed his mind. Yet, here he stood, with his weight on one leg and Kuroo’s foot jammed in a tree, Kuroo’s mouth on his neck and a million “I love you”s on his lips.

He spoke, trembling: “I am so, so glad that this is over.” By now the emotional floodgates were open, his face flushed and the pain in his knee insignificant. “I am so fucking glad we’re not separated anymore, I couldn’t—” Kuroo reclaimed his mouth, then, cutting him off. “I couldn’t take another second of it, I felt so guilty for being—”

Kuroo cut him off again, and mumbled “shut up” against his lips. “You’re not the one who should feel guilty,” he breathed.  
Oikawa indulged him in a kiss for a moment, then pulled away. “I’m telling you, I couldn’t take it, I couldn’t deal with not having you, I don’t know why I ever tried to push you away, it was— it’s like you’re a part of me, it’s like I was trying to rip one of my limbs off by trying to get rid of you, I—”

Kuroo, who had been watching as he spoke, cut him off for a third time, tipped his chin up and kissed him. He stroked a thumb across Oikawa’s cheek and Oikawa hummed quietly, knowing Kuroo’s finger would encounter tears.

Kuroo then pulled away and paused before speaking. “You don’t have to worry about that anymore,” he whispered, “because I’m never leaving you again.”

Oikawa curled his fingers in the material of Kuroo’s jacket and cried harder.

 

~~~

 

Kuroo had his foot jammed in the tree because of the boots Oikawa shoplifted for him at the beginning of the season.

“Karma’s a bitch, huh, Oiks?”

“I’ll shove snow down your coat.”

Once they had realized that standing at the edge of a ravine and making out while Kuroo had his foot jammed in a fallen tree was not safe nor feasible, they’d set out to solve the problem. And then continue making out, but that part was implied.

They’d then discovered that boot wouldn’t come undone. Not the bindings that attached it to the ski, nor the cuffs that attached it to his foot. Oikawa was well aware of the bitter irony of their situation.

“I told you at the beginning of the season that the bindings on these skis wouldn’t match up to these boots.”

“Shut up, Kuroo, we got them for free. That was 25,000 yen off our backs.”

“Illegally.”

“You had no qualms with it.”

“I do now.”

“Convenient.”

Kuroo’s boot wasn’t the part that was stuck, however: the front half of the ski was wedged neatly in the crevice between where the tree separated into two trunks. Normally, Kuroo would click his boot out of the ski and be on his way, or unclip the cuffs and take his foot out, but the boot was refusing to let him do either of these things.

Oikawa’s knee wouldn’t let him crouch, so as he worked on prying Kuroo’s ski out of its prison he sat cross-legged in front of him. “Is it just the that bindings are set too small, though? You’re telling me you’ve tried. You’ve really tried.” He grimaced at Kuroo’s shin. This situation was a mood-killer after the high of their reunion. “How did you even get this in here? I know we’ve been over it before, too many times, actually, but I have yet to warp my mind around how the fuck you managed—”

“I came off the moguls too fast, Oiks, and went flying through the woods before I could stop myself. I skidded on my ass until I saw this tree, and I sort of kicked at it to slow myself down so I wouldn’t fall down the hill, but my foot got wedged and when I stood up I only wedged it harder.”

“Right.” Oikawa’s low center of gravity made him more confident in nearing the edge of the ravine, so Kuroo’s protests and shouts as Oikawa yanked at his boot and sent him off-balance did nothing to deter him.

“I’ve got nothing to hold onto, here, and only one leg to stand on.” As he wobbled, he placed a hand on Oikawa’s head and gripped. “Don’t throw me into the ditch, Tooru, or all of this would have been a waste.”

“All of this, what?” He asked. “Coming to save you? Kissing your stupid face? All this effort?” He gestured to the boot’s cuffs and then his own numb fingers, wiggling them with a frown. “I’m trying here, Kuroo.” Frustration gripped him. There was little animosity left between them, but what there was seemed to show itself now; Oikawa was working to quell it, curling and uncurling his fists as he stared down his boyfriend’s calves.

Kuroo regarded him quietly. “It’s a pretty weird situation we’re in, if you think about it.”

Oikawa thought he saw what was coming, and stared up at Kuroo with a disapproval written all over his features. “If you’re about to go off on how me saving you this time around is some sort of hilarious irony, then I absolutely  _ will  _ push you down into the ditch, and tell everyone that you slipped before I could save you.”

Kuroo began stroking his hair, amusement in his eyes. “No, it’s just that we both screwed ourselves over at the same time, and ended up coming together because of it.”

Oikawa stopped yanking on Kuroo’s boot instantly. Something dawned on him. “That’s happened before, hasn’t it?” He looked up at Kuroo again, watching his expression. “You’re wrong about the one part, but what you just described has happened before.”

“The two of us doing stupid shit and then getting back together because of it?”

Oikawa gripped Kuroo’s jacket and helped himself to his feet; as he winced and mumbled curses Kuroo offered a hand. “Yeah, that’s it,” he said, having righted himself successfully. He swallowed, tugging at Kuroo’s collar. “Think about the accident, Kuroo.”

Kuroo blinked at him, snowflakes stuck in his eyelashes. “I’d rather not.”

“No, no,” Oikawa waved a hand. “Think about the pattern. The result. We get screwed over, and we end up together. It happened with the accident, and it happened here.”

Kuroo pursed his lips at him for a while before replying. “Right, but that’s just because we’re reckless and stupid. We act like we’re still teenagers.”

Oikawa pointed a finger at him, and with as much control as possible, plopped back down to the ground. “And that’s where you’re wrong,” he said, beginning to yank on Kuroo’s boot cuffs again. “It’s never our fault with these things. Never our fault.” He shook his head, speaking to Kuroo’s legs. “It’s Ushijima.” He flicked his gaze up. “Right? The accident. Fucked us over real good, and brought us together. This race? Fucked both of us over hard, but now we’re back together again. Both of those things are absolutely on him, not us.” He pulled at Kuroo’s jammed boot vigorously with each word, speaking through gritted teeth. “It’s— never— our— fault—”

“Hey, hey, wait.” Kuroo reached down to stroke his hair. “What’s going on? Oiks. Hey. Be careful with yourself.” Concern softened his voice and the pressure of his fingertips, and Oikawa had to look up.

“Ushijima, Kuroo, when you—when you said that thing about us always getting screwed over, it hit me. Ushijima has always been the one fucking with us.” He wrapped his fingers around Kuroo’s boot thoughtfully. “Right? He’s the one who broke my knee, he’s the one who made me angry enough to enter this race, and now my knee and your foot are messed up because of the race, and it’s taken me too long—”

“Are you sure that entering this race wasn’t just a lapse in judgement on your part?” Kuroo spoke cautiously, having recognised both Oikawa’s crippled emotional state and the control he had over whether or not he ended up in the ravine.

Oikawa pulled his hands away from Kuroo’s boot and met his gaze. “I did it because I was angry at Ushijima.”

“I mean—”

“That’s why I entered this race. When I saw the video, I had to get back at him. It was stupid, right, and I only did it because I was angry, but Ushijima triggered that anger.” He focused back on Kuroo’s leg, his voice quiet. “We made dumb decisions, but without Ushijima, none of this bad shit would have ever happened to us in the first place.”

Kuroo moved to speak, but when Oikawa looked up he found he couldn’t. He saw the tension building in Oikawa’s posture.

“Right?” Oikawa asked. His fingers tightened around Kuroo’s calf this time. “ _ Right? _ It’s always Ushijima. Ushijima’s the source of all this bullshit in our lives. He’s the only reason my leg is fucked up, he’s the only—and until a few days ago, I believed that you were the one who did it.” He paused, and reflexively, his grip grew tighter. He spoke through his teeth. “He made the two of us believe you were responsible, he saddled you with this guilt and made it near impossible for me to forgive you, he’s taken the last two years of our lives and shitted all over them, and he’s—”

“Tooru, wait.” Kuroo pushed his fingertips through Oikawa’s hair again. “Look at me, wait.” His voice was even softer than before, and as Oikawa looked up at him his shoulders tightened. “Do you hear something?” He darted his eyes to the side. “Shh, there’s something.”

“Have you even been listening to me—”

“Shh, wait, wait.” Kuroo’s hand stilled against his scalp. It moved again when he looked down. “Listen, there’s a drone.” He pointed a finger to the sky.

Oikawa froze, now acutely aware of the sound of Kuroo’s voice. “Where?” He kept his fingers pressed into the snow, vision blocked by Kuroo’s legs. “Where, why is there—why is there a drone? Kuroo, what?”

Kuroo had his head tilted up, eyes glued to what seemed to be an empty sky. “I can see one of its lights. It’s recording the race, Tooru, so there have to be skiers nearby.”

Oikawa renewed his grip on Kuroo’s legs. “I can hear it,” he said, and focused on the distant buzz of its motors. “It’s… recording the race?”

“Like they always do. It follows the person in the lead.”

_ The person in the lead.  _ It took Oikawa a second to process what that meant, but as Kuroo placed a hand on his head to get his attention again a single word popped into Oikawa’s mind.

“Ushijima,” he said, and looked up at Kuroo with fire igniting in his gut. 

Kuroo made eye contact with him, and a moment passed. “No—” he began, but Oikawa was one step ahead.

“He’s here,” he hissed to himself. He was pulling himself to his feet as fast as he could, tugging on Kuroo’s jacket and pushing with his left leg as he struggled. “He’s gotta be at the front of the pack, he’s gotta be in first right now, if the drone is above us, I gotta—”

“Oikawa, don’t you go do anything stupid. Don’t you go confront him or some shit.” Kuroo grabbed him by the shoulders, alarm registering on his features. “Hey, hey, look at me.” He made a “come here” motion with his fingers, despite their being centimeters apart. “What are you planning on doing?”

Oikawa was already pushing away from him, working his fingers off his shoulders and leaning onto his left leg. “Let go, Kuroo, I’m just gonna go over there and see.”

“No you’re not,” Kuroo said, and tightened his grip on Oikawa’s jacket. “You’ll hurt yourself again, hey.” Oikawa looked at him, and the whites of his eyes flashed. “I can’t have you running off through these woods, it’s dark. I know you’re planning on jumping him or something, but that’s stupid. Just let them pass us by.”

“If Ushijima’s out there, I’ve gotta—”

“You’ve gotta what? Talk to him? He’s fucking skiing, Tooru, hey.” He cupped Oikawa’s face in one hand and made him look at him; Oikawa in turn put his hand on top and scowled. 

When Kuroo stared at him expectantly, he felt the urge to explain. “I’m just—I need to get a look at him, or something.” His pupils were blown. “I have to say—”

“You’re angry.” Kuroo cut him off without hesitation. “You’re angry right now, Oiks, you do stupid shit when you’re angry. Don’t turn this into a repeat incident. If you go over there you’re gonna do something stupid and get hurt again. Don’t let your anger overwhelm you.”

Oikawa ignored the stinging truth behind Kuroo’s words. His grip on Kuroo’s hand tightened as a thought struck him. “What if he’s passed by already?”

Kuroo paused. “Then, that’s good,” he said slowly, and peered around Oikawa’s head to look at the trail.

Oikawa craned his neck to follow Kuroo’s gaze. “Hey, I wanna see—”

They both froze, then, their eyes fixed on movement in the woods. Oikawa dropped his hand to Kuroo’s forearm as Kuroo tugged him closer instinctively. The trees were sparse here, the lights illuminating the trail beyond turning the foliage into a silhouette. Between them was movement; the vague idea of a person moving towards them through the dark.

“Is that—is that a person?” Kuroo whispered. He whiteknuckled Oikawa’s shoulders, breathing hard against his ear. 

“I don’t… know.” Oikawa held his whole body still, fists clenched, breathing in and out slowly. He searched the darkness before them, but within in shapes were uncertain and movement hard to see. He felt blind, heart hammering in his chest.

“Oiks, if that’s a person, you gotta leave.” His cold fingers moved to the back of Oikawa’s neck. “You should get out of here, probably—”

“Shut up.” Oikawa replied, digging his fingernails into his palms. Kuroo’s presence behind him was a comfort, but knowing that Kuroo had a tree attached to his foot was not. He watched carefully as the figure shuffled towards them. “If that’s Ushijima, I’m gonna—”

“Oikawa?” A voice came, and it was not the cold, joyless monotone Oikawa had learned to associate with Ushijima. The person was still, their silhouette frozen between two trees. After a strained moment of silence they spoke again. “Oikawa, is that—”

“Bokuto?” Kuroo whispered it against Oikawa’s ear, and the realization hit Oikawa like a freight train.

The voice was Bokuto’s. Oikawa saw, now, that the silhouette had their hair sticking up, their head cocked to one side, a hand pressed to the trunk of a tree; the person was broad-shouldered and stocky, a glint of light shining off their goggles. He could make out a patch of yellow jacket against the darkness.

“Bokuto?” Oikawa repeated, and tore away from Kuroo’s gasp, stumbling forwards through the darkness. His chest burned, and so did his neck, where Kuroo’s fingers had pressed. “Bo?” He stopped halfway, his knee preventing him from going any farther. He held out both hands tentatively, staring into the trees. “Bokuto, is that—”

“Oikawa!” Seeming to appear out of thin air, Bokuto collided with him, knocking the air out of his chest and plucking him off his feet. The sudden rush of force and warmth took Oikawa by surprise, but soon he had his arms around Bokuto’s shoulder and a wicked grin on his face. His knee brushed against Bokuto’s leg, and he winced. “Hey, Bo, can you—”

“Oikawa, oh my god, oh my god, it’s Oikawa,” Bokuto said, planting sloppy kisses all over Oikawa’s face. “You’re not…dead,” he breathed, and kissed him properly then.

Oikawa couldn’t be held accountable for crying: being pulled into Bokuto’s arms after thinking Ushijima was coming through the woods was tantamount to ascension. He breathed him in, hand wandering to discover familiar silver hair. “Bo, I—” Bokuto’s hair was wet and caked with frost, but the pressure of his hand on Oikawa’s neck was warm and the goggles against his forehead seemed friendly. “Bokuto, I gotta breathe—”

“You’re alive, you’re still here, you didn’t die or anything.” Freeing him, Bokuto pressed their noses together, his eyes wide and watery. “I seriously thought that you were dead, I was so sad over it, I was gonna stop skiing, I was seriously  _ so _ sad over it, Oiks, I couldn’t stand it, I had to—” Bokuto stopped speaking then, and stilled with Oikawa against his chest.

In the quiet, Oikawa noticed that Bokuto still had his skis on and his poles in his hands, Oikawa standing on the front half of his skis. “Hey.” Oikawa stiffened as Bokuto loosened his grip on him, pulling himself closer so he wouldn’t fall down. “Bokuto,” he breathed, taking a look at his face. “Bokuto, are you—” He stopped.

Bokuto was staring past Oikawa, eyes wider now, towards where Kuroo stood. Oikawa looked to Kuroo, then, and saw him shocked. With the dark expanse of the ravine beyond him and the shadows of the trees scattered across his face, he stood still.

“Bo?” Kuroo asked, cautious. His voice sounded out of place, quiet.“You’re in the race?”

Bokuto, with Oikawa still clinging to his torso, shuffled forward on his skis. “Yeah,” he said. He straightened his posture. “I entered because Oikawa did.”

Something occurred to Oikawa, then, between Kuroo’s guarded stance and Bokuto’s

arm tucked around him possessively. He had no desire to address it, and no idea how he would, if ever he had to. He shifted his gaze away from Kuroo’s, knowing he was being stared at.

Bokuto filled the silence: “You’re here, too?” He glanced at Oikawa, and Oikawa willed himself not to read the disappointment on Bokuto’s face. “You two have—”

“We’ve made up, yeah.” Oikawa watched as a smile spread across Kuroo’s face, and stiffened. “We’re pretty great now, actually, but it’s a long story.” He gestured to the fallen tree his ski was jammed in. “This, uh, well. Yeah. A problem,” he said, and looked up, as he’d just delivered a proper explanation.

“Wait, your—” Bokuto took care to bring Oikawa with him as he slid forward. His brows furrowed. “Your ski is stuck in that log? Kuroo, wait, lemme help—”

“Like he said,” Oikawa interjected, “it’s a long story.” He wrapped careful fingers around Bokuto’s arm and looked him right in the face. “But I’d like to know where Ushijima is.”

Kuroo’s eye twitched. “Oikawa, you should drop it—”

“Ushijima?” Bokuto’s eyes went wide with something like excitement, and Oikawa tensed further as Bokuto’s arm tightened around his waist. “He and I are neck and neck. Or, were, I guess, now that I’ve stopped for you guys. I thought I heard your voice through the woods, and I’ve been really worried about you the whole time, so I thought I should—”

“Bokuto, you, you—” Oikawa had gone still the moment he started speaking, and now couldn’t conjure words himself. He stared down at Bokuto in dismay. “You were—”

“Ushijima was right with you?” Where Oikawa failed, Kuroo did not. Oikawa looked at him, then, and saw his own shock mirrored. “You were keeping up with him?”

Bokuto’s chin lifted with a smile. “I sure was! He’s not really that fast. I wasn’t giving it my all. He seemed pretty frustrated by it, though, it was pretty funny, but that’s not important.” He patted Oikawa’s chest twice. ”Race doesn’t matter anymore. I need to get you guys out of here, ‘cause it seems Oikawa’s got one leg to work with and your ski is—” Moving to let Oikawa down, he leaned in to examine Kuroo’s ski closer. “Why haven’t you just taken your foot out of the boot? I get it that the ski is stuck in the tree, no fixing that, but you should just undo the cuffs.”

Kuroo and Oikawa were both staring at him, mouths hung open.

It took Bokuto a few more seconds of picking at Kuroo’s boot to notice the silence. He looked up, slowly, and made eye contact with Oikawa. “What?” He asked. When Oikawa didn’t say anything, he pouted his bottom lip out “What, Oiks?”

“Bokuto, you—” Kuroo grabbed his attention, a hand half-raised. “You’re just as fast as Ushijima?” His eyes bulged. “You were next to him until you stopped just now?” He spoke coherently, but he had a hand pressed to his forehead in disbelief. 

Bokuto perked up again, having no understanding of the gravity of what he was saying. “Yeah! We were leading the pack. I could have gone faster, but I don’t really care about this race, so I figured I’d just give it to him at the end. The course is kinda wonky today, the moguls are really hard and it’s icy, but I’m good at moguls. He’s not, I guess. He was getting pretty mad.”

“Is he—is he hurt?” Oikawa wanted to kick himself for getting excited at the idea. “Did he fall or something? Why is he slow?”

Bokuto lifted a single eyebrow. “He’s not slow, Oiks, I’m just fast.”

Oikawa took a hard look at him, then, and restrained the awe rising up in his chest. He’d never considered it before, but if anyone was gifted with the tools to take down Ushijima, it was Bokuto. He was strong enough, large enough, and, perhaps, clueless enough to go in with no expectations and still come out on top. Suddenly, Oikawa became aware of the sheer mass of Bokuto’s arm around him, and had to stop himself from laughing. Bokuto was, all at once,  _ perfect.  _ Ushijima had no past experience with him, aside from this race.  _ He won’t see him coming.  _

To reach Ushijima’s level himself, Oikawa had to train for months, focus all his time and energy towards skiing, and even then he had a full season of painfully close races until he finally beat him. Then, of course, he’d felt the repercussions, but he doubted that Ushijima would be able to break Bokuto’s leg. A grin spread across his face, something like pride tugging at him.

When he looked to Kuroo, Kuroo already had his eyes on him. “We’re on the same page?” he asked, returning Oikawa’s grin. 

Oikawa had to take in the sight of him for a moment before continuing; it seemed, now, that things were finally coming together.  _ This _ was the way things could be set straight with Ushijima. Not through anger and stupidity and righteousness, but through the one who had been right there the whole time. Invigorated by their mutual understanding, he squeezed Bokuto’s arm. “Bokuto, do you think that you can beat him?”

Bokuto frowned, and yanked at his jacket sleeve to glance at his watch. “I mean, it’s been more than a minute since I got off the trail, but I figure if I leave right now I could catch up to him by the last lap. Why do you guys want me to—”

“GO, go, holy shit—” Oikawa nearly pried himself off Bokuto, freeing himself from the vice of his bicep and pushing him towards the direction of the trail. “Go, Bokuto, if you can beat him, you gotta.”

“What? Why? Oikawa?” Bokuto steadied him with a hand to the shoulder. “I need to help you guys get out of here. Kuroo’s boot is stuck, and you’re injured, I can’t just run off now, I need to—”

“No,” Kuroo said, commanding their attention again. Despite having to stand off-kilter with his one ski jammed, he maintained a certain level of dignity. “My ski and Oikawa’s leg can wait.” He clearly  _ meant _ what he was saying, meant the need for justice and the dedication to Oikawa his words implied, and the fire in Oikawa’s chest was roaring. “If you wanna help us, Bokuto, go beat Ushijima.” He spoke every word carefully.

“For us,” Oikawa then added, nodding up at Bokuto with eager eyes. Bokuto didn’t understand that Ushijima was the one who’d broken Oikawa’s knee, and there was no time to show him the video, so Oikawa had to rely on his blind faith and understanding. He curled his fingers in the material of Bokuto’s jacket. “It’ll make sense later, I promise. I’ll explain everything to you later. But he has to lose. Go  _ beat  _ him.”

Bokuto stared at him, surprise and confusion on his face slowly turning to determination. “Alright,” he said, squeezing Oikawa’s shoulder a little too hard. “If that’s what—”

“Go!” Kuroo shouted, grinning. “What are you waiting for!” He waved Bokuto off with both arms. “Get out there!”

Bokuto looked at Kuroo, then, with amazement in his eyes, and Oikawa knew the solution to his other problem. “I’ll beat him!” Bokuto shouted, because he would. “I promise I’ll—” He was hurrying away, then, yanking his pole straps on. “I’ll whoop his sorry ass! For you two! For whatever reason you guys have!”

Oikawa stood watching, buzzing, weight on one leg, as Bokuto’s blurry figure disappeared back into the darkness of the woods. Farther down, he reappeared beneath the flickering trail light of Misoshiru, but did not stay there long. 

“He does it out of love,” Oikawa said, mostly to himself. “He has no clue why we need him to do this, but he’s doing it anyways.” The rush of affection was strong enough that he had to cover his mouth.

When he turned around, he faced a teary-eyed Kuroo.

“I never—for a while there, I thought that you were—which one of us are you gonna—” Kuroo was smiling, still, because that’s what Bokuto did to people, but the confusion in his eyes was telling. “I didn’t remember until now that you and Bokuto were still—how are the three of us gonna—”

“You got it.” Oikawa cut him off, stumbling towards him on one foot.

Kuroo smeared tears across his cheeks. “I what?”

“You said ‘the three of us,’” Oikawa grabbed his shoulders for support. 

Kuroo paused. “The three of us.”

“If you’re wondering if you’re okay with that, just know that I would be unwilling to have it any other way.” The certainty in Oikawa’s voice was remarkable, considering the fact that he wasn’t sure of himself at all, but the thought of leaving Bokuto behind sent daggers through his heart; since he knew he needed both of them at this point, he felt this was the only solution, despite it being a shot in the dark. “And don’t try to convince me that you’re not in love with him too, because you are.”

“I’m—the three of us?” Kuroo stared at him with reddened eyes. “I mean, would it work? Can we? He’s—” It took a moment for the beauty of it to dawn on him, but when he did, he laughed, and it was equal parts choked and glorious. “You’re right,” he said, quietly. He brought Oikawa closer, then, and pressed his forehead to his boyfriend’s neck. “I really do love that guy.” He curled his fingers around Oikawa’s arms, and laughed more, and to Oikawa it felt like acceptance. “I wanna kiss his face.”

Oikawa was smiling so much it hurt. “I know,” he said, “me too.” He placed a hand over Kuroo’s dark hair, and shut his eyes. “I think, that from now on, things are gonna get—”

“I call dibs, though,” Kuroo said, bringing his head back up. “On kissing his face, when we get back down there, since we’ve established that that’s a thing I can do now.”

Oikawa snorted. “Right, okay. I’ve probably done it more, so I guess that’s fair.” He stroked his thumb across Kuroo’s cheek. “Really, though, I think things are about to get better for us, especially since—”

“Things getting better? Oh, absolutely. I’m gonna get to kiss Bokuto’s face. Nothing better than that, yeah?”

Oikawa curled his fingers in Kuroo’s hair, restraining another grin. “So much for being mad at him. I’m trying to be serious.”

“I’m perfectly serious.” Kuroo was not, evidently, but the warm gleam in his eye and the gentle pressure of his hands on the back of Oikawa’s neck told Oikawa all he needed to know. 

 

~~~

 

Kuroo, after a grand total of over thirty minutes with his ski wedged in a tree—perhaps a world record, Tetsu-chan, Oikawa was kind enough to point out—realized that he could actually just snap the thing.

“I mean, you’ve snapped skis before, so I don’t know what you were waiting for, really.”

“If it was so obvious, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m not a destructive person,” was Oikawa’s chiding reply. He sat cross-legged in the snow, resigning himself to such a position in consideration of his throbbing knee. “But if it works, it works~!”

“I didn’t know you were in a position to banter.”

Oikawa flashed a smile. “You brought it upon yourself.”

Kuroo held up the torn-off front half of his ski as if to admire it. He still wore the bottom half, as the bindings were still jammed and he couldn’t unclip his boot, but it functioned more as a shoe now and he could move freely. “Anyways,” he mumbled, “Since I’m free of my tree prison, we could technically get down the old fashioned way where I carry you and you cry into my chest, or we could call someone.”

Oikawa already had his lips pursed. “No service, and, in my case, no phone, remember?”

Kuroo tipped his head back. “Right, we lost it to the ravine.” He sent a comedically forlorn look down into the ditch. “Well,” he said, “I’ve still got mine.” He dug in his pockets and held up a frost-covered smartphone. “But it’s frozen solid and dead, has been since I got up the mountain, and I don’t know if there’s any chance of reviving it.”

“Or getting cell service,” Oikawa added grimly, reaching up. “Here, gimme, I’ll try to warm it up.”

Kuroo tossed it to him. “By doing what? Sticking it in your pants?”

Oikawa winced as he caught it, fingers sensitive to the frozen metal. “I was just gonna hold it, but now that you mention—”

“Oikawa, don’t, I was joking—”

Oikawa was already tugging at the waistband of his snowpants, dropping the device neatly into the space between his jeans and his boxers, and doing his best to stop himself from yelping in pain. “It’s cold,” he said, one eye twitching, “but worth it.”

Kuroo sat down in front of him, legs spread out with his feet propped up on his skis. “Right,” he said, and fixed Oikawa a grin. “Get back to me on that.”

A weird kind of tranquility settled over him after a while, Kuroo splayed out in front of him, the snow melting beneath his limbs, a frozen smart device numbing his inner thigh, and enough escape options to get down the mountain that it wasn’t hanging over his head anymore. His earlier prediction that things were going to get better had yet to fail him. He occupied himself with thoughts of Bokuto.

Bokuto had been so willing, so eager to help the two of them that Oikawa couldn’t help but worry that he’d hurt himself in trying to win. Maybe that was his own bias—he forever associated Ushijima with injury, and although he understood that Bokuto was far sturdier than he was, the thought of sending anyone out alone with the intention to beat Ushijima made him queasy. There was enough risk and uncertainty involved that it felt like he was going out there himself all over again. In the case of Bokuto, maybe he was right: if Bokuto did manage to get hurt, he knew he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself.

_ Maybe that’s how Kuroo felt, _ he thought, making eye contact with the dark-haired skier. The two of them felt right again, felt a new kind of comfortable, now that there was no _ “who are you gonna pick? _ ” conflict burdening them. Oikawa had to calm himself down every time he really thought about the fact that he was going to have both of them.  _ Both of them— _ that was, if Bokuto agreed, but Oikawa had faith in his attachment. The only time all three of them had been together before was to have sex, and it had ended in disaster, but Oikawa figured that under more controlled circumstances they’d be just fine.

_ More than fine, _ Oikawa thought, grinning to himself. He leaned back until he flopped back against the snow, let out a breath, and wiggled his toes within his ski boots. The moon was poking out behind the silhouettes of the trees above him.

He curled a bare fist, fingers fighting against the cold, and said: “I don’t think I’ll miss it anymore.” 

“What?” came Kuroo’s voice. Oikawa heard him shuffling closer, the crunching of snow nearing him in the dark.

“Skiing,” he said. “Now that I’m going to have you two.” As he rolled to his side, he was met with Kuroo’s boot, He tugged at Kuroo’s pant leg. “You know?”

“You think so?” Kuroo crouched down to face him, face contorted.

“I think I’ll be over it,” he said, “if Bokuto beats him.” He sprawled his arms out and thwacked Kuroo’s leg. Kuroo snatched up his hand. “I think I’ll get over it after that. I’ll still want to ski, maybe, but I’ll have distractions, and I’ll have revenge on Ushijima.”

“Revenge?”

“I mean, not  _ revenge _ . I do want real revenge, as in him, like, choking to death, but I have to be the bigger person~!”

Kuroo grinned down at him. “Since when are you the bigger person?”

“Since never.” Oikawa matched his grin. “I have a running streak of being the smaller person, actually, since you’ve got about three centimeters on me, but I don’t plan on crippling Ushijima back, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

“That’s good,” Kuroo said, carding his fingers through Oikawa’s hair. “I wouldn’t let you do it.”

“Oh, I’d do it if I wanted to.”

“Sure, right.” Kuroo’s grin grew even bigger. He squeezed Oikawa’s hand tight, sentimentality passing between them. “All that’s left now, though, is to wait for Bokuto.”

Something warm tightened in Oikawa’s chest, the vision of Kuroo’s face blurring. “You’re right,” he said, “that’s all that’s left.”

 

~~~

 

Kuroo’s phone warmed up eventually, and when it did, Kuroo spent an inordinate amount of time trying to climb up a tree to get a signal.

He did place a call eventually, but he wouldn’t tell Oikawa who it was, and whispered to the mystery person through the receiver several meters away.

“It’s a secret,” he’d said, now dead phone tucked neatly back into his pocket, “but they’ll get us off the mountain just fine, I’m sure.” He’d smiled lazily and tugged an indignant Oikawa closer to him.

“If it’s anyone but Suga, I’ll dump you on the spot. No hesitation.”

“You’ll see,” Kuroo had promised, “You’ll see. They’ll come and rescue us real soon.”

“I don’t like that grin on your face.”

It was Tsukishima Kei.

Kuroo spent his precious phone call Tsukishima Kei, one of his ski students.

The fourteen-year-old.

Except this fourteen-year-old brought two snowmobiles and an equally adolescent friend with him, and when he pulled in and took off his helmet, Oikawa nearly fell flat into the snow.

“Say hello to my savior protegé.” Kuroo guided him towards where the two snowmobiles were lined up with the same shit-eating grin on his face.

Tsukki wasted no time introducing himself, not bothering to step off his snowmobile and gesturing at Kuroo with a gloved hand, helmet stuffed beneath his arm. A smirk was visible on his face even through the dark. “Hey, dickwad. Something about needing help?”

Oikawa clung to Kuroo’s shoulders and gawked. The two snowmobiles were huge, the same bright red color with the “NISEKO MOUNTAIN” label that the ski patrol used. Lined up in the darkness, they took up a considerable stretch of the trail. Oikawa was too shocked to be relieved. “Kuroo, that’s a kid.” He looked to the other snowmobile. “That’s _ two _ kids, Kuroo, two children on Niseko ski patrol snowmobiles,”

“I know.” Kuroo managed to sound both perturbed and smug at the same time. “I know it’s not Suga, but Suga would have called mountain police on us, and my ass would get beat for interfering with the race. So,” he gestured broadly to the two red machines and the children atop them, “this is our way down the mountain. Hope you won’t break up with me, because that would be pretty awkward right now.”

“How do they have access to Niskeo ski patrol snowmobiles—”

“Oikawa?” Yamaguchi’s muffled voice came to him through a helmet. Yamaguchi struggled to yank it off, standing upright as soon as he did. “Oikawa? Oh my gosh! Oikawa, you’re here? Oikawa Tooru?” He extended both hands from where he stood.

Oikawa turned his head, then, and saw that Tsukishima’s friend was the same strawberry-haired kid who’d shown him the video of Ushijima. “Yamaguchi? Hey!” He smiled despite himself, watching as Yamaguchi struggled to get himself off the snowmobile and run over to him. “Hey, be careful—”

Yamaguchi enveloped him in a waist-high hug, his helmet bouncing off of Oikawa’s chest. “Oikawa, I didn’t know you were gonna be here! Tsukki told me we were just gonna have to rescue Kuroo!” he squealed. He waved at Kuroo, and received a thumbs-up in return. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

Oikawa put a hand on Yamaguchi’s helmet, steadying him, and was just about to reply as Tsukishima interrupted them:

“I’d hate to put a damper on this reunion, but we should probably get going.” He pushed his glasses up with one finger and turned to look at Kuroo. “You. Normally, I’d have a long list of questions to ask about how exactly you managed to get your ski stuck in a tree, or who your friend is and how Yamaguchi knows him, or why you called me to rescue your sorry ass instead of, oh, I dunno, an _ adult _ , but Ushijima and Bokuto passed us on their fifth lap just a few minutes ago and I think we’ll be able to catch the end of the race if we get on with it.”

Oikawa and Kuroo both immediately jolted upright at the sound of Bokuto’s name.

“Wait, what?” Oikawa was the first to speak, restraining himself from squeezing the life out of Yamaguchi in surprise. “Bokuto and Ushijima?”

“The two of them were neck and neck when we passed them, so if you wanna see the race end, we need to get going.” He looked at Kuroo again. “You expressed that desire to me over the phone just now, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Kuroo nodded and grabbed Oikawa by his jacket, beginning to tug them towards the snowmobiles. “We wanna see the end of the race, definitely.” He shot a glance at Oikawa. “Right?”

Oikawa, now holding Yamaguchi by his torso, had little time to think. He was still stuck on the fact that Tsukishima had access to snowmobiles, the fact that he brought Yamaguchi with him, and most of all that Kuroo had known to call Tsukki in the first place. The child he held began to squirm under his grasp, and he let go, Yamaguchi hurrying back over to his snowmobile. “Tsukishima, how did you get these snowmobiles?”

Oikawa could just make out Tsukki rolling his eyes at him. “They’re my brother’s, he works for the mountain, and I know where they keep the keys. He apparently got knocked out by some race-crashers earlier, so I just went and took them.”

Kuroo shuffled his skis, a grin stretching the material of his mask.

Oikawa chose to ignore this; the mountain employee in him was coming out. “Do you know how to _ drive _ them? Kuroo, did you know about these kids driving these things? I’m pretty sure you need a license, I’m pretty sure this violates a dozen different mountain rules, how old are—”

“Oikawa, do we wanna see Bokuto beat Ushijima?” Kuroo cut him off, fingers digging into his shoulder. “We need to get down the mountain.”

_ Ushijima.  _ Oikawa had forgotten, but now his conviction came back to him in full force. “You know what? Yeah,” he said, “yeah.” This was their way out, he realized:, these two kids and their illegal snowmobiles were the thing they’d been stuck here waiting for this whole time. It seemed almost anticlimactic: he’d expected ski patrol to come down with stretchers, or to be able to talk to Suga over the phone, but this was their ticket to see Bokuto again. His chest constricted at the thought. He needed nothing else to get him hurrying over towards where Yamaguchi was gesturing for him to sit.

They got off the moguls Misoshiru as soon as possible, leaving behind the bleak patch of woods where Kuroo and Oikawa had been stuck for the past forty-five minutes and escaping out onto the green trails of the mountain where they wouldn’t encounter anyone skiing in the race. The only issue was that these trails didn’t have their lights turned on, and the four of them soon found themselves piloting two potential death traps downhill in the dark on poorly-groomed snow. Both Tsukishima and Kuroo insisted that they would be fine, Tsukishima with enough conviction to lead Oikawa to believe that he’d done this before. 

Kuroo had to sit on the back of Tsukishima’s snowmobile, much to his dismay, since the one-and-a-half skis still clipped to his feet stopped him from sitting farther up and driving the thing. His legs stuck out awkwardly on each side, and only with his best efforts did Oikawa restrain himself from making fun of him.

Oikawa’s injured knee protested more against the buzzing of the motor the steeper the trails got and the longer they rode, but Yamaguchi seemed so pleased with himself and his driving job that Oikawa didn’t have it in him to ask him to slow down. It was dark, still, clouds rolling in and blocking out the moon by the time they were halfway. Oikawa nodded and smiled each time Kuroo craned his neck back to check on him, trusting that his boyfriend wasn’t wrong in letting his two pre-teens navigate them through the mountain. Oikawa found himself looking up often, watching the trails go by and remembering what it was like to be able to fly through them, remembering each tree and each turn and each narrow side-path that skiers would carve out of the woods. He tried not to grip Yamaguchi’s shoulders too hard, but the tension in his body was palpable. 

Kuroo eventually stood up from the snowmobile ahead of them, hands waving in the dark to signal that they were almost at the base. Yamaguchi let out a muffled squeal of excitement, and the snowmobile swerved. Oikawa tensed, but a smile slowly spread across his face.

The warm glow of the lights of Hirafu Village began to shine through the trees, poking up above the rise in the trail and opening out onto the mountain’s main base. The gondola at the far end of the flat was soon visible, along with the massive crowd gathered around where the racers would come out. Compared to the quiet and the dark of the trails they’d come through, the base of the mountain seemed to be humming with life. It brought back memories and set Oikawa on edge.

“Do you think they’ve come through yet?” Yamaguchi asked, flipping up the visor on his helmet. It was the first time either of them had spoken.

The question hadn’t even occurred to Oikawa. “No, I doubt it. The crowd wouldn’t be waiting like that.”

“Wait, which trail are they coming through? Don’t Blink or Yard Sale?” Yamaguchi asked. His high-pitched voice was almost carried away completely by the wind, but his question was valid: there were two trails that let out into this particular base area, and they both connected to the end of Misoshiru. Both were hard enough to be race-viable, but Oikawa was pretty sure the four of them had dodged them completely in trying to avoid the racers.

Oikawa stared over Yamaguchi’s head at the ever-nearing expanse of the base, eyes wide. “I don’t know,” he said, “I don’t even know which one we’re on.” He stood up as much as possible, and shouted to Kuroo over the whirr of the motors: “Don’t Blink or Yard Sale?”

Kuroo whipped his head around, confused for a moment. “We’re on Don’t Blink,” he shouted back. “They’re coming through here.”

Oikawa’s hands tightened on Yamaguchi’s shoulders involuntarily. “Wait, we’re on Don’t Blink?”

Yamaguchi startled. “Are we? Aren’t they coming through here?”

Oikawa looked around at the trees flying past them, trying to see if he could recognise the trail. He noticed the lights lining the trail’s edge, projecting bright yellow onto the snow. Confusion and fear took hold of him suddenly. “Shit, I should have known this was a part of the course. Only the race trails are lit. Why did we go through here? We don’t want to run into the skiers.”

“I dunno, I just followed Tsukki.” Yamaguchi huddled his limbs together defensively.

Oikawa stood up again, leaning on him for support, and craned his neck around to look at the trail behind them. Don’t Blink wasn’t that long, or that steep, and they were nearing the end of it, and it didn’t seem like Bokuto or Ushijima had shown up yet. Oikawa wasn’t thrilled about the idea of coming through the race course over the finishing line where everyone could see them, but so long as they didn’t mess with Bokuto’s potential victory, he would deal with it.

Just as he sat back down, gathering himself, Kuroo started waving at him from the snowmobile ahead, and whatever relief he’d felt was snatched away in an instant.

“Bokuto!” Kuroo was mouthing, and the pointing up the trail. “Bokuto and Ushijima! They’re coming!” Excitement was written all over his features. 

Oikawa whipped around again, heart racing, and immediately caught sight of the two figures shooting down the trail behind them. “Yamaguchi,” he hissed, “Yamaguchi, pull over right now.” The yellow of Bokuto’s coat and the purple of Ushijima’s flashed each time they went underneath a light, the two of them neck-and-neck and accelerating.

“Oh my god,” Yamaguchi said, and began to swerve towards the woods on their left side. The four of them were almost at the base now, only a few hundred meters ahead of them, the murmur of the crowd turning into a roar as people took notice of the two skiers coming down the trail. Oikawa shuddered as the snowmobile skidded to a halt, the whirr of the drone overhead coming into focus and the sheer mass of the crowd beneath them becoming apparent. He knew the four of them and their bright red snowmobiles were visible, but there was no way they were going to continue down the trail when Bokuto and Ushijima were behind them. Tsukki had pulled over in front of them when he realized Yamaguchi was slowing down, Kuroo having hopped off and now standing partway out on the trail, his one-and-a-half skis still on his feet, staring up the trail intently with a hand over his mouth.

Oikawa hurried to get his left leg over the snowmobile’s hull so that he watch Bokuto and Ushijima as they shot down the trail. His bare fingers gripped the plastic of his seat, his pulse pounding in his ears and his guts twisting. Part of him had doubted Bokuto’s ability to catch up to Ushijima within the time constraint he’d been given, but now Oikawa felt stupid: Bokuto was ahead of Ushijima by several meters, reflective goggles shining as he looked up, gaining speed and leaning forward in perfect form.

“They’re so fast,” Yamaguchi breathed, now clinging to Oikawa’s torso with wide eyes. He’d scrambled up behind him with his helmet visor flipped up, asking questions a million miles an hour. “That’s Bokuto?” There was disbelief in his voice. “That’s incredible.”

Oikawa grinned wide, despite his nerves. “I know,” he said. Yamaguchi’s words stirred glowing pride in him: he agreed, it was incredible. What Bokuto had pulled off before them was  _ incredible. _ He could do nothing now but watch as they drew nearer, the wind having kicked up, blowing in his face and pressing the material of his jacket against his skin. He hadn’t been aware of the cold until now, but it only invigorated him, sent his nerves tingling. It was surreal to see the two of them in action again—watching Ushijima ski triggered an immediate fear response in him, but to see Bokuto beside him,  _ ahead _ of him, trivialized everything else. His entire world, for the next thirty seconds, existed in the space between Bokuto’s skis and Ushijima’s, and he knew it.

The two skiers grew nearer still at a frightening pace, freed from the moguls on Misoshiru and bombing down as fast as their bodies would allow. Seeing it, now, Oikawa remembered exactly what it was like to rip free from a difficult trail into a clear one, to hunch over and engage his quads until he was as small and as lithe as possible, will himself forward on nothing but momentum, gravity, and the blurry sight of the finish line ahead of him. His right leg twitched, then, as if it intended to remind him of its presence.

“Is Ushiwaka gonna beat him? Oikawa, look, Ushiwaka’s winning.” Yamaguchi’s hands curled in the material of Oikawa’s jacket, bringing him back to reality.

“Oh, holy shit.” Oikawa scrambled away from Yamaguchi’s grasp, stumbling across the snow until he stood beside Kuroo, grabbing onto his shoulder for support. Kuroo was a few meters into the trail, beneath one of the many lights and gawking.

“Oikawa,” he stated absently, steadying him. The two of them were too engaged in the sight before them to focus on anything else.

Ushijima was gaining on Bokuto, his purple overtaking Bokuto’s yellow, his height overtaking Bokuto’s mass. Oikawa had never seen anything like this before: Ushijima’s victories never came down to the wire like this, but that made it all the more terrifying. Bokuto pushed himself forward with his poles, ducking his head deeper and huddling his legs together to try and become narrower. At this point, it was a game of aerodynamics, and Bokuto was losing.

The two colorful blurs grew nearer, Ushijima’s lead grew larger, and the blood pounding in Oikawa’s head grew intolerable. He had too much riding on this for Bokuto to lose; he had too much history built up behind this race, leaning on it, for it to not fall in his favor. The sight of Ushijima’s purple coat pulling ahead of Bokuto’s yellow sent terror ripping through him. He was cutting his fingernails into Kuroo’s coat, arms shaking.  _ I’m about to do something impulsive, aren’t I. _

“I’m gonna flip Ushijima off when he goes by,” he whispered to Kuroo, and did. As Ushijima went whipping past, he let go of Kuroo with one hand and his naked, cold middle finger stuck up proudly. He heard Kuroo laughing.

Oikawa had years’ worth of pain riding on this race, redemption from his greatest loss just beyond his grasp, his sworn enemy meters from him, and he chose what was quite possibly the most feeble, inconsequential, childish display of anger available to him. It was all that he had left. He snorted. 

Only, Oikawa hadn’t expected Ushijima to notice it. He and Kuroo were far enough away to appear ambiguous, the two pre-teens and their red snowmobiles more glaring than the either of them put together. His pale, chilly finger was hardly visible beyond the mask of speed and snow Ushijima was barreling through. In the heat of the race, with only meters between him and Bokuto, only meters between him and the finish line, there was no way he’d catch sight of such a tiny gesture. Oikawa had done it more for himself than for Ushijima.

Ushijima’s goggles flashed as he looked up, though, and Oikawa thought he saw a moment of hesitation in his movements. A slight jerk upwards, recognition, a loss of momentum that followed. He stood up so far that the Japanese flag sewn into the right breast of his jacket, the token of his placement at the Olympic trials, stood out against the purple. Then, fear registered in his movements as he recognised his mistake, as Bokuto continued beyond him with one final push, closed the distance between them and then some. 

Bokuto’s yellow blur flew past, blinking beneath the lights farther down the trail, alone and ahead.

It was a game of aerodynamics, and by standing up in surprise, Ushijima had just lost.

“Oh my god,” Oikawa said, because after years of dealing with a knee with half its ligaments still frayed, a scarred pride that kept him within the confines of a rental store, and a career ruined by a single person who’d escaped all blame, he’d stopped Ushijima Wakatoshi with one finger.

Bokuto continued down the final stretch of Don’t Blink unopposed. He’d go on to cross the finish line first, to meet the roar of the crowd with open arms, to pull his goggles off and fling them into the air in celebration. Ushijima would pull in after him, in a state of shock, sending confused glances back up the trail to try and get a better look at the oddly familiar man in the blue jacket who’d stuck his finger out at him with such purpose.

Oikawa didn’t notice any of this, however.

Oikawa was too busy on the ground with his face pressed into the snow, a concerned Kuroo reaching out for him, laughing harder than he’d ever laughed before.

 

~~~

 

Tsukishima and Yamaguchi brought them through the rest of Don’t Blink as soon as Oikawa collected himself. The crowd and media hovering at the base were too busy dealing with the shock of an unknown newcomer trumping Ushijima to harp at them for trespassing on the course during the race, so when they pulled around the back past the DJ and the ski racks, they were able to sneak in unseen. Despite the commanding darkness and the pulsing of the music, the lights and the ever-present hum of the crowd, Oikawa felt numb. He kept curling and uncurling his hands, holding onto Kuroo in childlike wonder.  _ Bokuto beat him. _

Tsukishima and Yamaguchi had to put the snowmobiles away, so after an emotional goodbye from Yamaguchi and a concise  _ “Don’t expect me to save you next time you pull some stupid shit like this, alright?” _ from Tsukishima, the two were off, their red tail-lights blinking back up the eastern half of the mountain into the darkness. Oikawa, in his giddy jell-o state, felt sentimental about it, but equally eager to go maul Bokuto with affection as soon as possible.

The two wandered through the crowd for a while, searching for him, keeping their masks up and heads down to avoid being recognised. Kuroo had to carry Oikawa’s right side for the most part, and kept running into people’s feet with his one-and-a-half-skis, which he had yet to rid himself of. Oikawa latched onto his shoulder for dear life. It was a bad experience, and one that was not leading them to Bokuto, despite Kuroo’s insistence that the silver-haired snowboarder had to be somewhere within the crowd.

“Is he getting media attention right now, do you think?” Oikawa asked. The two had escaped out the back, now huddled together taking a breather by the woods. Oikawa’s knee had begun to protest to being jostled around, and the second Kuroo got word of this he insisted on getting out of the crowd. Oikawa sat with his left leg bent and his right leg extended carefully. His ski boots felt like they were made of concrete.

“I mean, probably. Ushijima always got mauled with cameras after a race.”

Oikawa grinned. “So did I, one time.” Sitting in the dark with his back pressed to a tree, his throbbing knee fogging his senses, and Kuroo’s hand in his own, the memory of the race he won those years ago seemed out of place. The whole scene, the flashing lights and the music and the roar of the crowd and the cold depth of the slopes, felt entirely outside of him. It was the image of his life two years ago, presented before him in vivid technicolor. Beneath the muddled nostalgia and the reminiscence there was discomfort. Racing did not belong to him anymore. It was something of another time. 

_ Perhaps not a better one, _ he thought, remembering Bokuto. He stared out into the crowd again, wishing to glimpse a particular yellow jacket.

Kuroo looked at him. “I think you deserve some recognition this time around too, though, yeah?”

Oikawa was pulled out of his thoughts. “For what?”

Kuroo burst into a grin. “You really pulled through with that, uh, flipping Ushijima off.” He laughed and mimicked the gesture. “I’m not getting over that anytime soon.”

Oikawa smiled lazily, warmth squeezing in his chest. “Yeah, I’m not either. Lookit.” He pointed to the crowd, having spotted a flash of yellow among the dark coats. Hope took hold of him. “You think that’s him?”

Kuroo awkwardly navigated the process of getting to his feet with his skis on, gripping the tree behind them and very nearly kicking Oikawa. He squinted into the darkness, lifting his hair out of his eyes. “Yeah—” the confusion on his face slowly transformed into glee. “Yeah,” he said, pointing, “that’s him. That’s him, Oiks, look at the hair—”

Oikawa was already yanking on Kuroo’s coat to pull himself up, trying to see what he was looking at. “D’you think?” The flash of yellow grew larger until it was fully visible, the shape of Bokuto’s jacket taking form. He was facing away from them, talking to someone with a clipboard, two kids hovering around. The woman with the clipboard looked very neat and official, likely a reporter from a local station. Bokuto had others around him, too, the crowd seemed to clump around his vicinity, and a few had their cameras out.

“Well, somebody’s popular.” Kuroo smiled and snaked an arm around Oikawa’s shoulders. “That bastard. Those kids are probably after autographs.”

Oikawa matched his smile. “I can only imagine. He’s just beat Ushijima out of nowhere. I’d be all over him, personally.”

Kuroo snorted. “Should I go after him, though? They can’t receive  _ all _ his attention.”

Oikawa raised his eyebrows. “You don’t have to. Look.”

Bokuto had caught sight of them and was now waving at them enthusiastically, ignoring the reporter and the two kids. His coat was all the way unzipped, his poles stuffed in one hand, and his hair matted down completely. Seeing him, even from this far away, made Oikawa grin like an idiot. He seemed incredibly happy to have won, even if he didn’t know why they’d asked him to do it.  _ That’s Bokuto for you. _

“Oh, shit, there he is.” Kuroo waved back, stretching up tall and bringing Oikawa closer. “Should we—should we go over there?” He clearly wanted to, looking back out longingly with a grin on his face. “God, there he is.” There was incredible yearning in his voice, and Oikawa laughed.

He followed Kuroo’s gaze back, and saw Bokuto conversing with the reporter again. Bokuto gestured towards the two of them with his thumb, then nodded, and quickly took off in their direction. He waved again as he neared, bouncing up and down on his skis. Behind him, the crowd seemed to deflate.  
“Oh man, oh, he’s coming. We gotta go.” Kuroo didn’t have to coax Oikawa further; he was already ignoring the pain in his knee in favor of the skier in front of him, latching onto Kuroo tighter as they hurried forwards. The snow was hard-packed here, Kuroo was clumsy on his broken ski, and Oikawa’s leg was being continually jostled, but seeing Bokuto get closer made the pain worth it.

“Oh, fuck,” Oikawa said. He stopped where he stood, bringing Kuroo to a halt. “He’s gonna run us over, watch out—”

Bokuto, instead, swept the two of them into a bone-crushing hug, nearly barreling Oikawa over and threatening to bring Kuroo down with them. Oikawa immediately clung to his arm for support, the breath knocked out of him. It took him a moment to fully comprehend that Bokuto was around him, but when he did, he began laughing again, burying his face in Bokuto’s neck.

“Bokuto, oh my god,” he breathed, relishing in just how comforting and familiar Bokuto’s presence was. “Be more careful, you gotta be more careful.” He chastised him, but his heart wasn’t in it. He curled his fingers tight in the cold material of Bokuto’s jacket, shutting his eyes and letting the warmth in his chest bloom until it filled him completely. “But you won, Bokuto. You beat Ushijima for us. You  _ won. _ ” It felt almost surreal to hold him again. 

Bokuto pried himself off the two of them for a moment, hands hovering over their shoulders. His hair was in his face, his eyes were full of excitement and affection, and he almost shook as he spoke. “You guys, you’re  _ here _ . I thought I was never gonna find you, I got so worried once I left you, I thought you were gonna be stuck up there forever, but then—” He put a hand on Oikawa’s face, his chest heaving. “Then on the fifth lap I saw Ushijima again, and then I caught up to him, and then he and I were— then I couldn’t get past him, but then I saw you two, and then he slowed down, and then I—”

Oikawa kissed him, then, compelled to silence his worried rambling. He ran his fingers along Bokuto’s jaw, tugging his head closer. Never had he kissed Bokuto with such purpose.  It was a miracle to him, what had happened—after years of not even knowing Ushijima had been the one who caused his pain, Bokuto, the one person to come into his life and ruin his relationship and charm him to death and turn everything upside-down, was the one to beat Ushijima in the end. He couldn’t have seen it coming. Between him and Kuroo, things had always been a struggle: it had been this years-long conflict of misplaced blame and poor communication and pain, both physical and emotional, that they’d never been able to overcome on their own. Enter Bokuto, and things sort themselves out in a matter of months, seemingly on their own. Oikawa started laughing, breaking the kiss and bumping Bokuto’s nose. 

Bokuto froze for a moment, words still trying to come out of his mouth, before tightening his hold on Oikawa’s hips and drawing him nearer. He hummed against his lips, bringing a gloved hand up to fit around the back of Oikawa’s neck tenderly.

Oikawa leaned into the kiss, eyes shut tight, for several long seconds, before pulling away with a grin. He pressed their foreheads together. “Shut up, Bokuto. We weren’t gonna die. You  _ won, _ in the end, and that’s what—”

“Hey guys,” Kuroo said, cutting off whatever further public displays of affection may have followed. He, despite himself, was bright red, stifling a smile. “Still here.”

Oikawa and Bokuto both looked at him, breathing hard and incredibly close. Neither said anything, they just grinned. A sheen of sweat was visible along Bokuto’s top lip. Oikawa took a smug step back once Kuroo raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Y’know what, fuck off.” Kuroo went in for a hug from Bokuto, clasping their hands together and reaching around to pat his back twice. Their cheeks touched for a moment, and Kuroo averted his eyes once he pulled away. “We can work this out later—”

“Wait, Kuroo, really?” Bokuto stopped him as he tried to break the hug, his arm tightening. He stared up at Kuroo with tense concern, the two of them frozen.

Kuroo stared down at their hands for a second, alarmed. There was a stretch of silence, then he looked up to meet Bokuto’s eyes. There was tension in his posture. “What?”

“This is it? A hug is all I get? Do you not want to—oh, come  _ on _ , Kuroo.” Bokuto’s expression softened into a smile, and he pulled the taller skier towards him again to seal their lips together. 

Kuroo let out a surprised noise, and went still, eyes wide. It took him a moment to understand what Bokuto wanted, and he had to send Oikawa a glance before relaxing into it, but in seconds he melted against Bokuto’s touch, realizing that it was okay. He let go of Bokuto’s hand to step closer and tug against his hair, to tip Bokuto’s head back and slowly run a hand down his chest. He was trying not to smile, but Bokuto was laughing against his mouth and pulling him closer, and the grin won out. “Ah, fuck.” He managed, just as Bokuto opened their mouths and pushed his tongue forward. 

“Hey guys, still here—” Oikawa attempted to mock Kuroo’s earlier protests, but he was bright red, covering a grin with one hand, staring and extraordinarily flustered. He still had a hold on Bokuto’s left arm, but had to let go to let himself breathe. He didn’t know watching them kissing would do this to him. “You  _ guys. _ ”

Kuroo and Bokuto broke apart then, and Kuroo fixed him a lazy smile, his usual confidence having returned full force. “Sorry, what was that?” He deliberately shifted his arms so that his hands sat lower on Bokuto’s hips. “Thought I heard something.”

“Shut up.” Oikawa laughed, pressing his forehead into Bokuto’s shoulder. Everything around him seemed warm. Kuroo’s gaze, the flushed skin on his neck, the air between the three of them. “So that’s it, then.” Things suddenly felt final. He looked up from the snow around his feet, met with two beaming faces. “Yeah?”

Bokuto’s eyes were gleaming. He had his arms tucked around Kuroo’s waist, Kuroo reaching out to claim Oikawa’s hand. 

“Ushijima’s beat,” Oikawa said, almost in disbelief. He curled his fingers around Bokuto’s arm carefully, his cold hand meeting solid muscle. Affection bloomed in his chest. “It’s all worked out.”

Kuroo squeezed his hand tight, bringing it to his chest. “I sure hope so, or else this would be pretty awkward.”

All three of them grinned like idiots. In that moment, Oikawa felt incredibly whole: everything he was worried he’d have to sacrifice was being handed to him, every event behind him was irrelevant, every damaged part of him healed.  “I hope so too,” he breathed, in awe of the two men in front of him. “I really, really, love you—”

“Oikawa, wait.” Kuroo cut him off abruptly. Soon he had a grip on Oikawa’s shoulder, holding him steady. There was alarm in his gaze. He lifted an arm and pointed across the mountain base towards where the crowd still swarmed, where flashing lights sent colors scattering over the snow around them. “Oiks, look.”

Oikawa tried to turn, but stopped: Bokuto was staring past him, eyes wide, at something in the distance. Slowly, he reached to slip an arm around Oikawa’s torso. Something very guarded came about him. “Oikawa, it’s Ushijima.”

Oikawa turned around the rest of the way in an instant, prepared for the worst. His mouth hung open slightly. “Guys—”

There Ushijima was, several meters off, standing with his skis propped up in one hand and his jacket zipped up to his chin. He looked like a statue, almost inanimate, the lights behind him brightening his edges and obscuring his features. The dark purple of his jacket glowed pink. Oikawa watched carefully as his hand moved, tapping a slow pattern into the top half of his skis, each finger after the other. 

“Is he looking at us?” Oikawa whispered. He had a vice grip on each of Bokuto and Kuroo’s jackets, body stiff and ready to bolt.

“I don’t… know.” Bokuto answered. Oikawa had never been more grateful for the skier’s sheer size. Knowing Ushijima’s anger, and knowing his own knee and inability to run, having Bokuto beside him was a comfort. “I don’t think he sees us.”

Just then, Ushijima turned his head towards them, and paused. He still had his goggles on, and light bent across the reflective surface and masked his gaze. He turned the rest of his body, lifting his skis with him. 

Oikawa tensed further: it was odd to see him alone. He was always flanked by his coaches, by other skiers, by little boys who admired him. He seemed more quiet this way, more stoic, the darkness surrounding him only more fitting. Being alone did not make him look any smaller, however, and it only told Oikawa that he’d come here of his own accord. To Oikawa, that was more terrifying than any coach or any friend of Ushijima’s could ever hope to be.

“Oikawa Tooru.”

Oikawa had been waiting for him to speak, preparing himself for it; this did not afford him much. Ushijima’s voice made him aware of the cold all around him, which he hadn’t noticed before. He’d always thought Ushijima sounded like a robot—his voice was so monotonous, so unchanging, cold, and emotionless. Yet now, with a full understanding of what Ushijima was capable of, and a physical, personal understanding of what Ushijima had already done, the cold, grey monotone he was so familiar with struck fear in him where it hadn’t before. He took a firmer hold on Kuroo and Bokuto’s jackets.

None of them spoke. The three of them simply watched, waiting, their chins lifted and their arms trembling, for Ushijima to make a move. The man looked like a mountain. He tipped his head to one side, his hand going still against his skis. He reached up, slowly, with his right hand, and removed the goggles from his eyes. They fell and hung around his neck.

“Oikawa Tooru, you are a fool.”

The proclamation was sudden and unexpected; he spat the words out like they offended him. Oikawa had never heard him speak with such conviction. He truly meant it, he truly believed it, and he had a reason for it. His newly-exposed eyes   _ A fool. _

Oikawa’s thoughts flashed back to the mountain, minutes before, standing on the edge of Don’t Blink with his middle finger stuck up in the air defiantly as Bokuto’s yellow blur flew by.

He thought back to the rental store those weeks ago, the fresh-wound feeling he had in Kuroo’s absence, the day Ushijima told him he hoped to see him in the race: the day that set the stage for the disaster that followed.

He thought, but only for a second, about the video Yamaguchi showed him and the roaring anger that had blinded him like the sun, because he couldn’t bear to think of it while the man who ruined his life stood in front of him. Instead, he focused on the grip Bokuto now had on his arm, the protective cover of Kuroo’s reach. This time, he wasn’t facing Ushijima alone.

And yet his decisions stared back at him still, holding onto a pair of skis 200 centimeters long and wearing a purple jacket with the Japanese flag sewn into the right breast. He confronted them so:

“If you’ve only come here to call me a fool, then leave, because I already know.” His voice shook only slightly.

A smirk flashed on Ushijima’s lips. He took two steps forward, his boots hindering him none. “You are a fool, Tooru, because you—”

“Don’t you use that fucking name.” It was Kuroo that spoke, commanding all attention in an instant the way that he so often did. He was shaking, and had a fearsome grip on Oikawa’s far shoulder. “You don’t use his name like that.”

In this moment his voice, to Oikawa, sounded like nothing less than an angel’s.  _ This time, I’m not alone.  _ He made eye contact with Ushijima again.

Kuroo had given Ushijima pause. He continued in a moment, after regarding the skier carefully. “You are a fool, because you came after me. All it took was a single, tiny provocation, for you to do this to yourself.” He pointed a finger at him, as if Oikawa wouldn’t have understood otherwise.

_ A single provocation? _

Oikawa remembered the rental store again. Suga had been there, so had Bokuto, trying to console him the day after Kuroo had walked out. Ushijima had walked in and asked to rent skis, scaring the three of them out of the wits. He could remember the exact words Ushijima had told him, and he could remember the cold unfamiliarity with which he’d spoken, and the buzzing fear that took hold in the back of his mind for days afterwards:  _ “I hope to see you in the race on Friday.” _

Something occurred to Oikawa—

_ Was he deliberately testing me? _

At the time, he’d considered it far-fetched to think that Ushijima would know how to provoke him. At the time, he’d only known Ushijima as a machine. He hadn’t known the truth of the accident, hadn’t seen the video of Ushijima pushing Kuroo, hadn’t felt anything towards him but a vague sense of unease and the remnants of an old rivalry.

Then those words came and went, and with one sentence and its implications Ushijima had sent Oikawa spiraling into doubt, making him think long and hard about Ushijima’s past, his own, their relationship, and what possibly could have made Ushijima say something like that to him. He’d thought there was no way Ushijima had forgotten about his knee—he was there, the day it happened, in the race; he’d thought there could be no for Ushijima to try and get him to harm himself by entering the race, he’d seen no  _ reason _ .

He knew, now, though, that Ushijima hated him: because of the video, and because Ushijima had hurt him. Ushijima had wanted revenge on him, for beating him in a race the month prior. As soon Oikawa was climbing back up the ranks again, reaching for the throne, Ushijima had to stop him.

And he did, he stopped him. He tore his knee apart and put him in the hospital and ended his career forever. He stopped him so well, in fact, that someone else took the blame for it.

Oikawa shifted his hand against Kuroo’s back.

For two years, someone else had been saddled with the blame, filling not only Kuroo with guilt and self-hatred but giving Oikawa the monumentous task of forgiving the person he loved for something he hadn’t done. Kuroo hadn’t run into him that day, Ushijima had pushed him. Kuroo hadn’t been negligent in wearing goggles, and the snowblower that blinded him wouldn’t have caused any issues if Ushijima hadn’t had a grudge to satisfy. 

Despite the accident, the two of them had stuck together, and because of the accident, Kuroo still refused to wear goggles. He didn’t need to, though, and he now knew, because of the video Yamaguchi found.

The video, the grainy thirty-second clip of years-old drone footage torrented off of some shady skiing website had changed Oikawa’s life forever. It lifted the blame off of Kuroo’s shoulders, and pinned them neatly on the man standing before them. Oikawa’s gut churned at the thought of the video, at the thought of its accidental discovery, at the thought that he could have gone his whole life believing Kuroo was the one to end his skiing career, if not for one of Kuroo’s ski students.

Then, something else occurred to Oikawa;

_ Ushijima doesn’t know about the video. He doesn’t know the footage exists. He doesn’t know I’ve seen it. _

He stared at Ushijima’s unblinking face, having snapped back to reality.

_ Ushijima thinks the only reason I entered this race is because of what he said to me in the rental store. No wonder he thinks I’m stupid. _

Ushijima stared back, hard, but Oikawa knew the man was faced with a wall.

_ Ushijima lives in a world where I don’t know the truth. He lives in a world where still blame Kuroo for what happened. _

And then, Oikawa almost started laughing again, because here Ushijima was, calling him a fool, when he had no idea all the things Oikawa knew.

Here Ushijima was, thinking that all that was needed to set Oikawa off was a single sentence, when in reality it was a whole, humongous truth, learned from a video a middle schooler had shown him.

Here Ushijima was, having just been beaten by a _ snowboarder  _ in a  _ skiing _ race, with the gusto and self-importance to go confront an old rival he’d permanently injured years ago about a personal decision he’d made.

And then Oikawa no longer had to restrain any laughter, because anger overtook him. Ushijima was talking to man who he believed to be ignorant. Ushijima was talking to a man who he thought knew nothing about the truth of the accident. Ushijima had taunted him at the rental store to try and get him to enter the race and hurt himself—because Ushijima still hated him.

Despite the fact that Ushijima had already ruined his life, shattered his knee, muddled his relationships, he still wasn’t satisfied. He came back, years later, and still had enough hatred in his heart to try and get Oikawa to enter a race, to try and get him to potentially injure himself again:  _ “I hope to see you in the race on Friday.” _

The thing was, Ushijima had succeeded. Oikawa had hurt himself again, perhaps worse. He became aware of the pain in his right knee, still blistering and acute. He’d fractured his kneecap it coming off of Superstition and slipping into the woods, and he’d been ignoring it ever since, so that he could pay attention to Kuroo, or Bokuto. Now, he shifted his weight onto his left side, trying to favor it.

He maintained eye contact with Ushijima still, trying to convey his anger without words. His right leg seemed to burn more and more with each second.

_ You did this to me. You did this to me, and you tried to make it worse tonight. You got what you wanted. You got me to hurt myself all over again, and you smug bastard, you’re happy about it. _

Oikawa wanted to tell him about the video. Oikawa wanted to pull his phone out of his jacket pocket, and shove it in Ushijima’s face, show him that the truth was hidden no longer. His heart was beating in his throat.  _ I know that you did this,  _ he wanted to say. His fingernails were digging into the skin of his palm, his jaw clenched shut.  _ You’re not hiding anymore. I know what happened that day. _

He tensed, then, about to move forward, when his right leg began fighting against him. His frustration propelled him still, and just as he was breaking away from Bokuto and Kuroo’s reach, a hand held him back.

“‘Kawa, be careful.” Bokuto whispered this in his ear, taking careful hold of Oikawa’s right leg. His voice was soft in Oikawa’s ear. He had an arm around him still, worried eyes staring up at him through the silence. “Careful of your knee, yeah? Here, lean on me.”

Oikawa paused, mid-stride. He met Bokuto’s eyes, and everything else seemed to blur, the pain in his knee included. “Wait—” he began. He’d almost forgotten Bokuto was there, beside him, holding up his right side while Ushijima stared them down.

_ Right, _ he thought,  _ Bokuto just won the race. _

Bokuto’s eyes blinked up at him still, the whites flashing pink in the glowing lights all around them. “Is your leg all right? We can get out of here if you need to, okay?” His voice was barely more than a whisper. He shifted his arm to support Oikawa more, the yellow part of his coat crinkling against Oikawa’s chest. “Here, I’ll—”

“No,” Oikawa said, putting a hand on his shoulder. His eyes were wide, his body still. “No, I’m fine.” He watched Bokuto exhale, nodding at him sympathetically. Oikawa looked back at Ushijima. He gathered himself, pupils still blown, heart still pounding:

_ That’s right. Bokuto’s still here. Bokuto’s here because he just beat Ushijima. _

Some new calm came over him in an instant. The pressure of Bokuto’s arm around his waist, the weight of Kuroo’s hand on his shoulder, their guarded posture and possessive gazes: all of it became apparent to him at once. His white-hot, boiling, blinding anger seemed to fizzle away right in front of his eyes. When he looked back at Ushijima, he seemed smaller, less important. The accident, the violence, the pain; none of it seemed worth worrying about. The ache in his knee was there, but it was like radio static, like background noise, easily talked over. Kuroo shifted against him, and even the smallest movement made him feel like he was floating. His heart didn’t quiet.

_ Bokuto won the race. Ushijima can come after me, but Bokuto still won the race. _

Oikawa started laughing, then, for real, because Ushijima had lost in more ways than one. The race had been yanked out from underneath him, and so had any hopes of hurting Oikawa ever again. Oikawa covered his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning against it. “Ushijima, I’m—” He had to stop himself from speaking: the laughter was coming in bursts and interrupting him. “I’m—”

Kuroo and Bokuto took quick notice, sending him careful looks and bringing him in closer.

“Hey, you okay?” It was Kuroo that whispered to him this time, making brief and

concerned eye contact. “Oiks, we can get out of here right now if you need to. There’s no point standing around having a staring contest.”

Oikawa paused long enough to reply. “Fine,” he said, grinning, “I’m fine.” He waved a hand at Kuroo’s face, chest heaving with laughter. “Really, I’m fine.”

Oikawa looked back out, once Kuroo resigned himself, to find that Ushijima had taken several steps forward. He stood with his skis beside him again, his face contorted into a scowl, the lights beyond him still flashing colors against his coat. He opened his mouth, about to speak, when Oikawa cut him off:

“I’m invincible now, Ushijima,” he said. He held out both arms as best he could, one of them laced around Bokuto’s shoulders. “I’m invincible.  _ Look _ at me, Ushijima.” A smug grin spread across his face, the pride within him full and threatening to burst. “You can’t _ touch _ me.”

“What are you talking about, you fucking—” Ushijima cut himself off this time, mouth held agape. His brow knitted together and his mouth shut after a few seconds, as he began to understand. His grip on his skis tightened visibly. “You can’t—”

“I can’t what?” Oikawa lifted a single eyebrow, waiting for Ushijima to continue. When he didn’t, he went on: “I’m not alone anymore. I’m not vulnerable anymore. You can try, I guess, from now on, to try and hurt me again somehow, but I wish you luck. _ Look  _ at me.” He had Kuroo and Bokuto standing right beside him, each supporting him, Kuroo with half a broken ski in his hand. Their grins had begun to match his. “You’ve done so much to me. You’ve ruined my life, ruined my leg, ruined my career. But none of that matters now. None of it, Ushijima, none of it.” He let out a breathy laugh, his chest full of warmth. “I’m  _ invincible. _ I’m  _ invincible _ to you now. You’ve tried and tried to take things from me, but _ look at me. _ I’ve got no purpose for anger. I’ve got everything that I need.” He shook his head and wiped at his eyes, his vision scattered with bright dots of light in the distance, his smile still remaining. “I’ve got  _ everything. _ ” He pulled Bokuto and Kuroo closer to him.

Ushijima stared silently, his ski poles dangling from his hand, tips buried in the snow. His goggles hung around his neck, the visor caked with frost. He wore a halo of the lights behind him. Oikawa couldn’t read anything on his face, only the shroud of apathy he so often wore, but Oikawa didn’t care. He wasn’t focused on Ushijima’s face. He didn’t  _ care  _ anymore. His right knee ached, but Bokuto was holding him up. His instincts told him to fear Ushijima, but Kuroo had a hand pressed to his back and daggers in his glare.

So much pain, anger, and blood had led up to this moment that it seemed odd, to Oikawa, that in the end, he felt at peace with it all. His body had broken twice, now, and his heart too many times to count, yet with two men behind him, supporting him, and one in front of him, trying and failing to tear him down, he felt above it all. Everything behind him was done, gone, discarded. He had no reason to hold onto it, when there was so much light up ahead. He felt the warmth of Bokuto's breath against his skin, and thought it again: There is _so much_ light up ahead.

Oikawa exhaled quietly. Bokuto and Kuroo were waiting for him to ask to leave, but he wasn’t going to yet. Ushijima still stood there, silent, staring, waiting for Oikawa to speak. His coldness was adamant, immune to Oikawa’s sudden happiness, convinced of its own place. Ushijima’s jacket had snow on it, melting into water droplets, stuck in the metal of the zipper. Oikawa looked close, and saw that one of the corners of the Japanese flag sewn into the right side was fraying. The silence between them persevered.

Oikawa shut his eyes, considering carefully what he was about to say: “I have everything, Ushijima, despite your best efforts.” He lifted his chin, breathing in the cold air long and slow. Everything around him was static. “What do  _ you _ have?”

Oikawa gave him no opportunity to respond. He tapped both Kuroo and Bokuto on the shoulder twice, and the two of them turned him around, leading him through the snow, away from the lodge, away from the lights, and away from Ushijima. They left him in the dark, alone, breathing out mist into the snow-flecked night air. Oikawa didn’t plan on seeing him ever again.


End file.
